


Gum Girl

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot went down in the weeks leading up to The Fall y’all..., Major character death (canonical), Multi, because mormor, major character death (non-canonical), mormor, references to poisoning mayhem torture and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2019-11-29 12:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18222992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?MUSIC NOTESThe Three Songs I listen to, on a loop, while writing "Gum Girl" are:"Polly" by Nirvana"Bury A Friend" by Billie Eilish"Take Me To Church" by Hozier





	1. Polly

**1.**

_“Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?”_

She’d hoped the memory would fade, like a nightmare, blurring at the edges, the colors muting and with them, so, too, might the shame. But eight hours later, it was all still there in her head, just as sharp and crisp as it had been when it happened.

Of course, even if her brain had been cooperative enough to obscure the memory, her co-workers would’ve been right there to refresh it, with their firsthand recollections and the bloody courtroom recording. The Chief apparently thought it was a hoot to play it on a loop, for kicks, and Griffiths even put it on his mobile, recorded it right off the monitor.

“Poll, sweetheart, I’ve got something in my pocket that you can have,” he joked, his big maw gaping wide as he laughed with Jones and Price. He held up his phone for her to relive the moment when she complied, the moment when James Moriarty had smiled, and thrust his tongue in her direction, the moment when her face flushed bright red, just like it was right now. She shoved Griffiths harder than necessary and ran to the loo, because at least he couldn’t follow her inside.

Even her own brother couldn’t resist, although admittedly from a slightly different perspective. “Of course I know he’s a criminal mastermind or what have you,” Dennis said on the drive home, shifting his piece-of-shit car into gear, “but, love, he is gorgeous enough to make me consider becoming a prison pen pal.”

Polly just stared out the window, watching the city rush by, feeling raw.

 

**2.**

The next day, a dozen packs of gum were taped to her locker. The fact that none of them were the correct brand bothered her more than it should have.

“You can’t let them get to you,” Viv said, helping her pluck the packets off, one by one, and chuck them into the bin. “This’ll blow over, you know. Everything does. I mean, hardly anyone brings up Neil’s gaffe at the Christmas Party anymore -- and that was actually funny.”

Unconsoled, Polly kicked a dent in the locker door.

 

**3.**

“Still can’t believe he got off...”

“You see that footage of him in the Tower?”

“Dancing. What a queen.”

“Literally. Wearing the crown, even.”

“Fucking poof.” 

_Cowards..._

 

Polly’s co-workers talked a big game, but they’d been scared as kittens during processing. During the trial itself, Griffiths and Jones, Henderson and Price, Clowse and Ryall, all the lads had been positively cowed to have Jimbo Moriarty in the building. Not a word had been said about him until he was well gone -- only then did their goss begin.

“He did take a shine to old Poll, though, didn’t he?” Griffiths leered, his words garnering an equally leering reaction from the group.

She pretended not to hear them, busying herself with the filing.

Griffiths went on. “Then again, considering the size of her tits, I’m not sure if that’s a case for or against him being a poof.”

Just as Polly was formulating a perfect comeback -- really he was setting himself up, making a “size” joke -- Viv grabbed her wrists.

“Down, girl,” she said, her voice hushed. Polly looked down, and realized her fists were clenched, digging her own fingernails into her own palms. Eight smiling half-moon indentations, and she hadn’t even felt any pain.

Not unkindly, Viv leaned in. “Either use those fists to shut him up, or put them away, you hear me?” She hadn’t really meant her to take it literally, but Polly absolutely chose to take it that way -- and given those options, well, Polly knew exactly which one Jimbo would choose.

 

**4.**

“...contusions, lacerations and a broken arm.”

Polly looked away. “It was only supposed to be a sprain.”

“Well, congratulations, Officer Wright, you’re stronger than you thought,” the Chief grimaced. “Look, he’s not pressing charges--“

“--how could he and still save face?” She snorted. “Getting beat up by a girl--“

“Dammit, Polly, will you stop?” He wasn’t a bad guy, the Chief, and sighed when he passed her the paperwork. “Look -- he’s not pressing charges, but we do have to suspend you.”

“Of course you do,” Polly said, signed her name where he’d indicated. She picked up the paper as she stood to leave. “I suppose you’d like me to file this for you on my way out?”

 

**5.**

“He doesn’t have the right!”

“He does have the right,” Dennis said, “he’s your Chief.”

“Yeah, and my Sergeant was the one who gave me the go ahead to do it!” Polly seethed, the memory of Sergeant Eames nodding serenely at the defendant’s request for her to put her hand in his pocket. She was halfway through a bottle of vodka by this time, a prescription for the insult the Sergeant added to her injury.

“This isn’t about what happened in court, Poll.”

“Isn’t it?” she spat, and stole a cigarette from the pack on the table. Her eyes flickered up from the pack to her brother. “Thought you’d quit.”

“Yeah, well,” Dennis held out a light for her. “Some things are difficult to resist, aren’t they?”

“Like punching Griffith in the face?”

He smiled and raised his glass. “I, for one, shall always endorse punching hate-filled assholes in the face, especially ones in uniform.”

She managed a smile, and took another pull from the bottle. “What am I gonna do, Denny?”

Dennis stood up. “You weren’t fired, Poll. You’ve just got a few weeks off work, that’s all. Everything will be fine.”

And then she nodded, like she believed it.

 

**6.**

_“Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?”_

She’d hoped the memory would stay, like a dream, crisp and clear, the colors vivid, and with them, too, so might the shame. In the dark, the shame felt like a gift, something to be opened slowly and savoured in private. She recalled his staring eyes and his crooked smile, the smell of peppermint on her fingers, and the feel of the deep flush in her cheeks. She pushed the duvet farther down on the bed, off her hips, her legs, not nearly the heat and weight she wanted above her.

She closed her eyes tightly as she shifted to her side, one hand firmly between her thighs, the other gripping the headboard. She hadn’t expected him to speak to her -- it had been startling when he had, and when she’d looked to the Sergeant for guidance, she’d certainly not anticipated a nod to comply. Her arms had gone to gooseflesh, then, as they had every time she’d thought of it since.

The defendant’s public request had made everyone within earshot complicit in the act: the Sargeant, the other constables, even the spectators in the stands. In that moment, the humiliation was immediate and terrible, but later, in the privacy of her own room, it was something...different. Still terrible, but terribly appealing as well -- and that was a whole new level of shame.

It was sick, thinking this way -- but everyone’s a little sick when they’re alone in the dark, aren’t they? The word “sick” itself had a prurient appeal.

Polly let herself relive the tentative plunge of her hands into his pocket, her fingertips feeling the transition from the suit’s rough wool exterior to the slippery silk inside, and oh, the way her body responded to that specific part of that memory, the memory itself a special, secret kind of bliss.

In the safety of her bedroom, she imagined taking her time finding the gum, milking the moment until she found it. It had been the only thing in his pocket: an unwrapped piece of candy-coated gum - Orbit brand, the kind of treat she’d fished from the bottom of countless handbags, bookbags, and left behind on an assortment of taxicab floors.

She’d looked up at him when she found it, before she removed it, but he’d simply stared off into the distance, eyes gliding past her the way rich people do when they talk to waiters or coat check girls, taxi drivers or, frankly, constables -- seeing but not really seeing, assuming they would accomplish their petty little tasks, and if they didn’t, well...there’d be hell to pay.

The moment she’d grasped it, however, the moment she began pulling the small rectangle from his pocket, well, his attitude changed, hadn’t it?

He’d looked at her almost fondly, then, gazing at her as if he were memorizing her face. The next moment, the mood shifted once again, with the appearance of that vulgar tongue: extended, waiting, entitled and challenging, just daring, her to finish her task.

 _Fuck_ if that image hadn’t burned its way into Polly’s brain...

In moments like these, she could think of a thousand other things she could do with that tongue, absolutely none of which involved chewing gum.

In the days since, she’d wondered how he’d known. Perhaps he’d read it in her face, or smelled it on her skin, or perhaps it was simply predatory response. Because that’s what he was: a predator. The big bad wolf in a designer suit. Him, with the staring black eyes and crooked smile and no doubt a whole catalog of sick thoughts of his own. It was all so wrong, both of them were both so wrong, so sick, but also so beautiful, so brilliant, and oh god, so... _close_...

Afterward, she lay in the dark for a long time.

 

**7.**

It was well past two in the morning when she finally pulled on a jumper, and made her way downstairs.

“Taking the Cav, Denny!” she shouted out to her brother, grabbing the keyring at the front door.

She didn’t wait for a response.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who'd like to relive the scene that inspired this fic, [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=NUDoInEYlc8) and go to 1:57.


	2. Sebastian

**1.**

He first noticed the car -- fifteen-year old beater, tinted windows, dented fender, rusted boot, torn Oasis sticker in the rear window -- three nights after Jim was released. Not a lot of cars parked in in the street in this part of town. Not a lot of cars like that in this neighborhood, period.

_Curious._

Champagne bottles rattled in the paper bag under Sebastian’s arm as he made a mental note of the make and model of the car - Vauxhall Cavalier, Mark III, not exactly a vintage car of choice. His eyes instinctively moved to the bushes around the building, to the alley across the street, to the buildings beside. Nothing. All was quiet, all was exactly as it should be. Probably a delivery vehicle bringing a pizza or an eightball or a Russian party favor, nothing more. Sebastian sighed. Bloody court visits must’ve gotten to him, making him more paranoid than usual. Not a bad thing, all things considered.

Seb’s mobile buzzed, and with his free hand, he reached for the phone to find a one-word text from his boss:

**_THIRSTY._ **

Seb rolled his eyes, and after one last, lingering glance at the vehicle, he hustled his arse inside.

  


**2.**

The car returned the very next evening, parking on the opposite street, still well in sight of the penthouse. This time, though, the engine was running, and there was a figure behind the wheel.

 _Very_ curious.

Sebastian advanced, flicking his cigarette into the alley, crossing the road quickly - but not quickly enough. Even before even made it to the corner, the car’s engine roared to life and the wheels squealed as it pulled past him with a reckless swerve.

He stared after the car as it drove away, and a flicker of a smile passed over Sebastian’s face.

_Someone wants to play._

  


**3.**

Sebastian stared out the window, meditating on the empty street below. No sign of the beater, not for several days. Perhaps it really had been a delivery driver.

His lack of information wasn’t for lack of trying. It had taken Seb exactly eleven keystrokes to discover the name of the owner of the car - one Dennis Wright -- but the name hadn’t rung any bells with any of the usual people.

He wasn’t a patient man, but he was willing to wait and see what the driver’s next move might be.

  
  


**4.**

In the wake of Jim’s kidnapping last winter, Seb had tightened security to the point that Jim had threatened to have him defenestrated if he didn’t back off.  

“I’m fine, Sebastian,” he’d insisted, in his own cajoling way, “I’ve told you: the intel received was well worth the trouble.”

 _Trouble_. That’s what Jim had called weeks of interrogation at the hands of the British government. That’s what Jim had called actual physical and psychological torture, resulting in concussion, several fractures, and the loss of more than a few teeth. Jim’s skewed view had reframed the whole situation as a win for him, resulting in him getting exactly what he wanted.

Seb’s view had been decidedly less positive, but he did as he was told. Now that Jim’s prison flirtation was over, and he was fully engaged in his plot against Holmes-the-Younger, Seb could turn his attention to his most important job -- and that was protecting Jim.

With that in mind, the absence of the mystery car should have been a relief. _Should_ have, but wasn’t - and had led him, once again, to hack into CCTV to review footage on his laptop.

“Earth to Sebastian,” Jim trilled in his ear, snapping his fingers. Manic today, Seb thought, and made a mental note to alert the house staff.  

Reluctantly, he closed his laptop. “Right here, Boss.”

  


**5.**

“You don’t think this reporter person will notice that you’re wearing a £300 cashmere cardigan?” Sebastian asked, skeptically. He sat in a green silk chair beside a crystal glass with three fingers of scotch nearly as pricey as the clothing. After hours appointments at N. Peal were a luxury, but it was one Jim could well afford.

“Darling, that one’s never seen cashmere in her life,” Jim smiled, preening in the mirror. He wore a burgundy cardigan, taking care to leave the bottom button undone. “Trust me. I’ll ruffle my hair, pair it with a...hmm, henley, I think, that’s quite working class--“

“Will that be made of cashmere as well?” he asked, knowing full well he was pushing it. The hour was late and shopping with Jim always left him exhausted.  Four days since he’d seen the beater and the memory of it worried him, like a hangnail, the flesh begging to be torn...

“Excuse you,” Jim said, with a pout. “This is Grand Theatre, darling. Just because Richard Brooke is a children’s presenter, it doesn’t mean he’s utterly devoid of style.”

“It’s your money,” Sebastian said, and took another sip of scotch.

“Yes it is, isn’t it?” Jim said, pointedly, before coming over and straightening Sebastian’s tie. “Let’s try not forget that, yes?” he murmured, his tone menacing and his eyes locking to Seb’s.

Sebastian didn’t flinch, staring back with the slight air of boredom that had saved his skin more than once. Boredom was infinitely more respectable to Jim than fear, but just as the staring contest began to edge closer to dangerous, the clerk re-entered the room.

“Decisions made, Sir?”

Jim’s expression changed in a flash, turning falsely bright at the sound of the clerk’s voice. He dropped his stare, and turned to the clerk. “We’ll have this,” he said, pointing at the maroon cardigan he was still wearing, “We’ll also take the waistcoat in Grey - looks appropriately theatrical. Oh, and one of the Knightsbridge Zips,” he said, pointing in Seb’s direction, “In Navy, for this one.”

 

 

**6.**

Tuesday’s assignment had been to persuade three key members of the UK Energy Research Centre to doctor their research for the sake of an international client. It had been a disturbingly easy job, one that was over before it had begun, really. Bloody scientists. Seb chastised himself: clearly, he should have known there’d be no broken bones, and minimal blood spilled with that lot.

_No fun at all..._

The exercise had left him with what felt like a gallon of untouched adrenaline coursing through his veins. An excess of energy -- the irony of which most certainly hadn’t escaped him. He felt restless, ready, and spoiling for a fight. Had Jim actually been in town, Seb might’ve had an outlet for the kind trouble he was looking for. But on this day, Jim was frustratingly out of pocket, leaving Seb adrift.

Adrift, that is, until the moment he rounded the corner leading to the garage beneath their building. That’s when he spotted the beater, parked closer than it ever had been before, and he couldn’t help but grin.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said out loud, “I have missed you.”

  
  


**7.**

This time, Seb opted for a more stealthy approach.

This time, the engine wasn’t running and the tinted driver’s seat window was down. Inside appeared to be a woman -- blonde, young, fit -- on her phone. Alarm bells went off, and Seb began scrolling through his list of potential threats based on her demographic. Neighbor? Estate Agent? In that vehicle, not bloody likely. Pap? Groupie? Possibly, but not the only options, and Seb slowed his roll. This was, after all, a posh neighborhood. Rock stars and politicians alike lived here. Whatever she was, she could be here for any one of them - and other than the car’s relative proximity to the building that housed Jim’s penthouse, there was nothing to say she was specifically here for Jim.

Of course, there was only one way to find out.

In the car, he heard a snippet of conversation -- “Borrowed, not stolen,” she said, distracted, her back turned to the street.

 _Argument? Or teasing?_ He couldn’t tell.

“Look, I’ll be home soon,” she said, before hanging up.

 _Lover? Or parent?_ No way to know for sure.

He moved to the window. “Can I help you?”

She turned, cigarette in hand, her eyes slowly lifting to take him in. He’d successfully caught her off-guard, but in response, she neither panicked, nor did she attempt to placate him with a smile. Instead, she simply answered his question with another question.

“Is that blood?”

She gestured with the cigarette to miniscule spots on his trousers, gone unnoticed in the aftermath of this morning’s exertions.

“Probably,” he breathed, and braced his arm firmly against her car door, his jacket opening just wide enough to show the holster he wore underneath his jacket. “All the more reason for you to answer my question.”

“No help necessary, thanks,” she said, and flicked her cigarette end onto the pavement beside him.. “Vinegar does the trick, you know - you should tell your housekeeper.”

“I don’t have a housekeeper.”

“Well, Jimbo does, I’m sure,” she said, pointedly. “Can’t imagine he does his own laundry.”

Sebastian paused - so yes, she was there for them - and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of Jim sorting his whites. _‘Jimbo’_. That’s what the papers called him, so she was a Pap? His eyes darted to the passenger seat -- no photog equipment, but then again, who needs any of that when you have a halfway decent phone? “Which one are you with?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Which paper, sweetheart?” Seb asked quickly, irritated. “Come on, I haven’t all day.” He didn’t like engaging with the press on any level, obviously, but the last time something like this had happened, Jim had given him no end of shit for not getting the name of the paper before confiscating their gear.

“I’m not with a newspaper,” she said, frowning.

“Don’t lie to me, love.”

“I’m not your love.”

“What are you, then?”

“Interested,” she said. “I’m interested, is all.”

“Right.” So, groupie it was. Ever since the break-ins, Jim’s visibility had shot to the top of the charts, instantly propelling him to the status of Most Wanted among a certain sphere of wannabe companions. Seb had read somewhere that the most outrageous crimes attracted the most attention from groupies, and Jim’s stunt, particularly breaking into the Crown Jewels, had brought out a particularly starry-eyed, romantic sort of admirer. Looking at her in this light, she came into clearer focus -- from her chipped nail polish, to her cheap blouse to the crumpled cigarette pack on her dash. He sighed, and fished in his pocket for his pack of Rothman’s. “Look,” he said confidentially, pulling out one for himself and offering the open box to her.  “You should understand, he’s not fond of hangers-on--”

“But he’s fond of you?” She interrupted, helping herself and and leaning towards him for a light.

He shot her a look. “I’m not a hanger-on.”

“Right.” she asked, echoing him as the fire caught. “But he is _fond_ of you?”

“I’ve got to go, and so do you,” he said, abruptly, and pushed back from the car. “There’s nothing for you here, sweetheart. Catch you loitering around here next time, I won’t be so kind. Am I understood?”

She let out a stream of blue smoke, peering into his face. “Fine. Understood,” she said, at last, and turned the key, the engine sputtering to life.

Sebastian slapped the top of the car. “Good. Off you pop.”

He waited until she’d pulled away, and hung around long enough to make sure she didn’t just drive around the block. In the elevator on the way up to the flat, Seb made the careful decision not to tell Jim about his latest admirer, mostly for fear it would only serve to further inflate the man’s ego.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**  
>  \- [The entirely unimpressive Vauxhall Cavalier, Mark III](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vauxhall_Cavalier#Mark_III_\(1988%E2%80%931995\)) (minus the torn Oasis sticker)  
> \- [N. Peal](https://www.npeal.com/) is a real place. [This](https://www.npeal.com/mens/cardigans-cashmere/fine-gauge-cardigan-midnight-blue) is [what](https://www.npeal.com/mens/gilets-waistcoats/herringbone-cashmere-waistcoat-fumo-grey-lava-blue) Jim [bought](https://www.npeal.com/the-knightsbridge-zip-cashmere-sweater-navy-blue-dark-charcoal-grey)...  
> \- [It's not a vex fic until a wild Henley appears](https://perpetuallyvex.tumblr.com/tagged/Henley%20Kink)...  
> \- [Lifehack: 10 Ways to get Blood Stains out of Everything](https://lifehack.media/10-ways-to-get-blood-stains-out-of-everything) \- vinegar is #1 on the list!
> 
> Surprise! An unexpected chapter posting!
> 
> My apologies, y'all, for being so wishy-washy with the posting schedule for this fic - at first I was giving myself too much time, then I changed it to a more reasonable schedule and _then_ I realized that I wanted to post the first three chapters all in a row, as sort of a treat before/during Con. But I have made a plan, and I'll be sticking to it: The first three chapters will be posting weekly (with chapter three posting on Sunday from 221BCon), and then after that, chapters will post once every two weeks. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, and stay tuned for next week's (hmmm, wonder whose POV that'll be from?)!  
> <3  
> vex.


	3. Jimbo

**1.**

He frowned at his phone. “The hair’s not right.”

The phone’s camera turned to reveal Sebastian. “We’ve got a wig, remember?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Wig. Fine. As long as he’s tall enough. Is he?”

Sebastian turned the phone to show the man again. “How tall are you again?”

“Six feet.”

“He’s six feet even, boss, just like the real one.”

Jim Moriarty had been plotting Sherlock’s death since he was twelve. It had become of a pastime, something to do while waiting for the bus, or (later) while riding in the limo. Moriarty would plot his demise while lying in a prison cell, while sitting in a board room, or while watching Seb disembowel his latest target.

Truth was, killing Sherlock would be easy. Too easy. At this point, it wasn’t even about the killing. It was about making the _way_ he was killed worth losing the pastime. It had to be clever, it had to be remarkable, and it had to negatively impact the Holmes’ legacy forever and forever.

“Dying’s not enough,” he said, to the room around him, to no one in particular.

“Pardon?” Seb’s voice, confused, on the other end of the phone.

“Have him put on the coat,” Jim said. “And then --“

“Yes, Boss?”

Jim smirked. “Then send him up to my suite.”

 

**2.**

 

Who needs amphetamine when you’ve got a plan in action?

Who needs cocaine when your mind’s already crystal clear?

More to the point, once you’ve flushed your anticonvulsants, who needs drugs at all?

Jim didn’t choose to fuck the lookalike again because he looked like Sherlock. Okay, well, perhaps he had - the symbolism was divine - but he most _certainly_ didn’t fuck him because Sebastian had disappointed him. “Disappointment” would imply some level of personal investment in the sniper, and that was patently ridiculous. Ridiculous thought. Jim was more invested in the Prada Spring Menswear Collection...

But the fact was, Sebastian had been making mistakes lately --  T’s had gone uncrossed, I’s had gone undotted, all because the man was too busy flagellating himself for letting Jim slip into Mycroft’s hands. Protection is good, but overprotection is miserable, and mistakes on the job are unacceptable. Because when you’re simultaneously the right hand man of the only Consulting Criminal in the world _and_ his lead assassin, mistakes can mean people die...and sometimes not the ones that are supposed to.

So, of course Jim noticed.

Jim noticed everything.

 

 

Including that revolting car.

 

 

**3.**

“Do you have any qualms about the kidnapping?” Jim asked later that night, rolling over onto his side.

Sebastian was unfazed. “Why would I?”

“Because.” Jim said, his finger tracing a path down Sebastian’s torso. “Because those children are the rich, entitled offspring of a British diplomat, just...like...you.”

Sebastian never liked being reminded of his father, of his fall from his father’s grace, and Jim’s comment had, in fact, been intended to draw blood. Seb had been lingering by the window again that evening, and Jim, well. He hadn’t liked it.

Clever Seb, though, he countered with precisely the right words.

“You know that whatever entitlement I had went away years ago,” Seb said earnestly, his right hand pulling Jim closer. “Any qualms I might have had went with it.” He kissed him then, hand tugging in Jim’s hair. “You are my only and greatest privilege, Boss.”

“You sure about that?” Jim asked, tugging back, harder and sharper until Seb, eventually, screamed, begging for him to stop. The very act of his begging quickly brought them both to the brink.

Afterward, when they were both out of breath, a sheen on their skin, blood pumping quickly through their veins, Jim placed his head on Seb’s chest, and listened to the sound of his heart.

For the moment, all was precisely as it had always been between them.

For the moment, they were both still very much alive.

  
  
4.

 

“So, you’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are!”

Kitty Riley and Richard Brook had a coffee, which led to a lunch the following week -- and that lunch was so successful, it ran straight into dinner. A few well-placed confidences simply sealed the deal between them, making Richard more real and bonding him with his new favorite journalist.

“It’s not like that,” Jim-as-Richard said, careful to remember his role. “He was a crew member on my last show. Technically, I’m his boss. And to be honest, he’s been making me crazy lately, he worries too much.” 

“That’s a bad thing?”

“He’s overprotective.” Richard leaned in, impulsively. “Besides, he’s not my type.”

“Please,” Kitty said, with a dismissive gesture and a knowing air. “You’re in the theatre. You know everyone’s just a little gay.”

“Not kid’s show performers, darling. But,” said Richard, pointedly, and stole a spoonful of her chocolate mousse dessert. “But _If_ I were?”

“ _If_ you were,” Kitty smugly took the last bite. “I’d give him some space -- you said he was being overprotective, so enjoy your freedom! Give him room to get a leg over whoever it is, and get it out of his system. And then be there when he inevitably comes running back.”

Richard frowned, not quite believing he was actually considering the advice of a woman who wore H&M. When the waiter left the check, he reached out to take it, but Kitty beat him to the punch. “Not a chance, Richie. This one’s on the paper. ”

  
  
  
**5.**

 

“By the way,” Jim said casually, knotting his tie. “I’ll be gone the weekend. To Surrey.”

Seb groaned, his hand automatically reaching for his phone. “When do we leave?”

“No.” Jim said. “Just me. Daddy needs some alone time.”

“Daddy. Right.” Seb scoffed and stretched, muscles still aching from the day before. “You do remember that I am actually older than you, right?”

 

**6.**

 

Well, he _did_ have to go to Surrey.

St. Aldate’s was the kind of place Jim had spent his childhood dreaming of - large classrooms, mahogany on the walls, and a library that stretched on and on and on. Even the tea was top shelf.

“My job often takes me away from home, you see,” Jim said, handing her a fake business card that presented him as “Jonathan Wild”, a successful London financier. He took a sip of tea and it burned his tongue. Swallowing the dozen exquisite obscenities that yearned to exit his mouth, he simply grimaced and said “Gosh, that’s quite hot, isn’t it?” Pain further blossomed on his taste buds, and Jim seethed inside. “Anyway, yes, so, little...William...needs some consistency in his life. A good routine, and the excellent education that only this school can provide.”

“Most certainly, Mr. Wild,” Miss MacKenzie said, nodding pleasantly, even as she mentally tallied up the cost of his shoes, his watch, his ring and the car parked outside. Approving of the figure, she placed her cup gently in its saucer. “Shall we begin the tour?”

As they ascended the stairway, Jim’s phone chimed a text, alerting him that a certain car had arrived outside the penthouse.

He followed the school matron up to view the dormitories, and, feeling peevish, he nonetheless valiantly resisted the urge to garrote her in the music room.

He returned home to find his sniper alone, but in such a good mood that Jim decided Seb should be the one to taste-test the mercury-laced chocolates.

It was only fair.

 

**7.**

 

A week later, and frankly, Jim had had enough. The broken headboard in the guest room had been the last straw.

It took Jim exactly eleven keystrokes to discover the name of the owner of the car - one Dennis Wright. Happily, it took even fewer to predict which club he might be visiting on this night.

“You look familiar.”

The bass thumped loudly, and lights flashed. Jim swallowed the rest of his gin and tonic - _and in a plastic cup for fuck’s sake, such sacrifice_.

“I’m a children’s television presenter,” Jim said, awkwardly tugging his cardigan closer, playing the part. It was so easy to play harmless with an Italian stiletto in one’s pocket. “People always think they know me, but it’s just because their kids see me on TV.”

Dennis smiled, charmed already. “I don’t have kids.”

He’d been easy for Jim to pull, natch, even in his Richard Brook drag -- but for the life of him, Jim couldn’t see what it was about this man that would turn Sebastian’s head. Dennis wasn’t terrible looking: an amiable coffee shop manager, a twink verging on 30 and beginning to slack in the skincare and fitness departments - and while he wasn’t altogether without appeal, he didn’t seem to be Sebastian’s type, certainly not to the point of distracting his work.

“Want to dance?”

Jim cocked his head, amused. “Always...”

The rhythm of the crowd pulled them onto the dancefloor, the crush of the bodies, the pulsing lights, perfect place for a murder, really. Not that Jim was planning anything, per se, but no one can predict when inspiration might hit. Alas, by the time the lights came on, the only thing they were both slick with was sweat.

“There’s this party in Islington...” Jim started, pausing to see if he’d take the bait.

“I’m up for it,” Dennis said, tossing his damp hair out of his eyes. “Tube’s stopped running by now, so night bus? Unless you’re flush enough to split a taxi?”

Jim frowned. “Don’t you have a car?”

“My sister’s got it tonight,” Dennis explained. “Honestly, Poll borrows it so much it’s basically hers by now. It’s a piece of shite, though, so I don’t care.”

“Your sister’s name is Paul?”

“Oh, no - ‘Poll’, as in short for Polly? She’s staying with me for the time being, going through a rough patch at her job.” Dennis laughed sheepishly. “And that’s my awkward way of letting you know that if it ends up being your place or mine later, yours is probably best.”

Jim-as-Richard laughed along, his mind zeroing in on key words. “Sorry to hear she’s having problems at work. What does she do?”

Dennis grabbed two cups of water from the bar and handed one to Jim. “Believe it or not, my baby sis is a copper. Nothing like having a rozzer in the family,” he said, with a roll of his eyes. “But enough about her,” He said, and eased a little closer to Jim. “You really are gorgeous. I swear to god, I’ve seen you somewhere before...”

But Jim had tuned out after the word “copper”, and moments later, he quickly made his exit, intentionally allowing the crowd to separate them as they filed out into the street.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTE**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Jim's pseudonym at St. Aldate's - Jonathan Wild - is not a nod to Oscar, it's a nod to [Jonathan Wild (aka Jonathan Wilde)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Wild), a notorious London criminal from the turn of the 18th century. Per Wikipedia, he was notable for operating on both sides of the law, posing as a public-spirited crimefighter entitled the "Thief-Taker General" -- and I thought Jim might take great pleasure in both referring to himself as a General and having a winky little pseudonym secret.
> 
> Jim is gathering clues -- see what happens next in 2 weeks! 
> 
> Thanks for reading/commenting/hyping this strange little fic in social media. You guys are the best!  
> <3  
> vex.


	4. Polly

**1.**

_“Would you mind slipping your hand in my pocket?”_

The trial would last three months. At the end of the first day, the guards had walked him back to his holding cell, and after unshackling him and securing his cell, Griffiths and Jones, Henderson and Price, and Clowse and Ryall had all filed down the long hallway, back to the stairs. Only Polly lingered behind, her cheeks still flush from what had happened in court.

“Why?” she breathed. She’d meant it to sound accusatory, but she simply sounded pathetic, even to herself.

There was a pause.

“Do I need to have a reason?” Jimbo slowly walked to the window, allowing himself to be seen. “They say I’m mad, after all. ”

“No. I mean, why _me_?”

“Oh, poor Gum Girl,” he said, in mock sympathy, raising his chin, and leaning the flat of his hand against the door. “Was it really that terrible, Officer?”

She didn’t say a word, and took a small step back. And then another, and another after that. Before she knew it, she was running.

“Oh, darling, I won’t bite you.” He called out after her, and then to no one but himself, “I mean, not so long as this gum keeps its flavour.”

 

**2.**

She’d returned to the street outside the penthouse in spite of Seb’s promise to be unkind, or perhaps because of it. But instead of making good on his promise, he bought her a drink.

“Is he home tonight?”

“No, he’s in Surrey.” he said, stirring his drink. He paused before leaning over, his voice hushed. “He is gay, you know? I mean, you get that, right?”

“Right.” She nodded, and swiped his cocktail olive. “But you’re not.”

 

**3.**

Three hours later, he gripped his headboard so hard it broke.

 

“Will he be angry?”

“About the headboard?”

“Not what I meant.”

“We...have an arrangement.”

“I don’t doubt it.” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist once more. “But will he be angry?”

 

Seb hesitated.

  
  
  
**4.**

A week later, at the shops, thinking about Sebastian.

When she spoke his name, it felt thick on her tongue, and consisted of entirely too many syllables. He was a way in, and likeable enough, even if he _was_ altogether too loud. She did like the way he spoke to her, the words he used, and how he always came when she called. As hard as he’d seemed at the onset, she’d caught on quickly that he was a domesticated breed, eager to serve and, judging by his interest in her, Polly concluded, not particularly discriminating.

Had the military tamed him? Had Jimbo?

That thought warmed her, and made her feel closer to Him. Jimbo. No -- she’d been right the first time -- Him, with a capital “H”, utterly blasphemous (even though she’d never really put much stock in God). Her god, after all, would hardly live in the clouds surrounded by harp-playing angels. Her god would open locked doors with the flick of his finger, and pull strings from a glossy penthouse apartment on the 27th floor, from right here on earth,.

In the checkout lane, the clerk gave her a sunny smile. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Polly considered her question before answering honestly. “Close enough for now.”

 

**5.**

Her suspension from work ended before she knew it, and before she knew it, she was back in uniform, staring into her locker with Viv beside her, rambling on about what she missed.

Not that she’d missed anything.

Nothing of importance.

Nothing that mattered.

In fact, the only thing she’d missed was the fact that she should have known Griffiths would never let her humiliation of him go unanswered. She’d not thought twice about being assigned dinner deliveries for the detainees, but when she arrived at the last holding cell, empty but for Griffiths, she knew she’d been foolish.

She slumped, resting the heavy tray against her hip. “What do you want, Griff?”

He shrugged. His arm was still in a cast, and the scratch she’d left on his cheek had transformed into an ugly scab.

“Just what you done for that criminal,” he said, callously. “If he could make you grope him in front of a courtroom full of people, imagine what a respectable officer of the court can make you do right here in private.”

With his good arm, he reached for the door and slammed it shut.

“Fuck off, Griffiths. Open the door,” she said, well aware of the panic creeping into her voice.

He shook his head, advancing on her with an awful smile. “Oh, you’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said, his hand already unbuttoning his trousers. He moved one step closer and without thinking, she smashed the tray upwards under his chin, sending soup flying, and she shoved him until he fell backwards against the holding cell bench.

 _Satisfying, that._ Adrenaline flowing, she unlocked the cell and stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind her. “This ends today, Griffiths.”

Inside the cell, he ungainfully stumbled to his feet, shouting at her through the bars as she walked away. “This ends when I say it ends, you cunt!”

She stopped, cocked her head, and turned back around.

 

 **6.**  

During the trial, she’d managed to track down Professor James Moriarty’s treatise, titled “The Dynamics of an Asteroid.”

Most of it went well over her head -- maths was never her strong suit -- but a section in the book’s preface had stuck with her.

_“Chaos is the final state in a system’s movement away from order. Familiar order and chaotic order are laminated like bands of intermittency. Wandering into certain bands, a system is extruded and bent back on itself as it iterates, dragged toward disintegration, transformation, and chaos. Inside other bands, systems cycle dynamically, maintaining their shapes for long periods of time. But eventually all orderly systems will feel the wild, seductive pull of the strange chaotic attractor.”_

Polly bit her lip. Too bloody right.

 

**7.**

She caught sight of herself in the the tube window and tightened the elastic in her hair. _Better._  Thus far, Polly’s morning had been one misstep after another - sleeping through her alarm, missing her bus, running a full four blocks to make it to the train. Chief, of course, would go ballistic, and probably give her a shite assignment as a result. At St. Paul’s station, she ran up the stairs two at a time, and somehow managed to make it to the court house by quarter after, out of breath. She burst through the door to find Viv at reception.

“Thank god it’s you,” Polly breathed, “I’m late, Chief’s gonna have my head--“

“Poll--“

She shook her head. “No, I mean it. Could you tell him you saw me in the locker room at 9?”

“Polly! Listen to me: Chief’s got other things to worry about right now.”

She looked around her. The reception area, normally loud and boisterous this time of day was eerily quiet, people going about their jobs with none of the usual rowdiness. “What- what’s going on?”

Her face was pale. “Griffiths has gone missing.”

 

Polly did her best not to smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Polly. What have you done now?
> 
>  **END NOTES**  
>  \- How long does gum flavor last? Unfortunately for Polly, [according to this study](https://prezi.com/k7mjsex5kpxh/what-brand-of-spearmint-gums-flavor-last-the-longest/), Orbit brand gum came in fifth out of five brands tested, it's flavor lasting an average of just 22 minutes! If Jim is serious about long-lasting flavor, he should switch to 5 Gum, with lasted a full 78 minutes, on average!  
> \- [Scientific American gives us a little background into "The Dynamics of an Asteroid".](https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/cocktail-party-physics/sherlock-holmes-and-the-dynamics-of-an-asteroid/#)  
> \- The excerpt I'm presenting as an excerpt from "The Dynamics of an Asteroid" is actually taken [directly from researchers John Briggs and F. David Peat](https://www.encyclopedia.com/science-and-technology/mathematics/mathematics/chaos-theory).
> 
> The next chapter posts May 5th!  
> <3  
> vex.


	5. Sebastian

 

**1.**

 

_Not a groupie._

The words pounded in his head all the way home.

 

_Not a groupie._

_Not a reporter._

His head throbbed.

 

_Not a groupie._

_Not a reporter._

_Not an estate agent or a dealer, a whore, a delivery driver._

_Fucking_ **_police_** _._

Finding out your girlfriend is a murderer who needs help hiding a body is one thing - but to find out she’s also a copper? That was a little too much to process, even for Sebastian.

 

 

**2.**

 

In the end, after Seb told him everything, in detail, Jim sat back in his chair, and flexed his fingers.

“So let me get this crystal clear,” Jim said. “One cop brutally murders another cop, and they call you in to clean up their mess? How very generous of you, Sebastian.”

“She’s a friend.” Seb sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I was careful.”

“And the cameras?”

“Sorted.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“The victim deserved it.”

“I don’t care.” Jim stood and crossed the room to pour himself a drink. “And your ‘friend’?”

“Unrepentant,” Seb said, and thought of her enthralled voice over the phone. “But her discretion can be counted on.”

“I would say so. Murdering policewoman, that’d grab a headline. I trust you kept your head enough to grab a souvenir?”

Seb rubbed the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable, and reached into his pocket. He placed the flashdrive on the coffee table.

“Good man,” Jim smiled suddenly, brightly, and reached for the drive. “A policewoman. How positively perverse. ”

 

**3.**

 

He took her to an isolated cabin that once belonged to Seb’s father.

“Why are we doing this?” Polly asked.

“Because, babydoll, next time, I’m not spending hours cleaning up after you. Bullets are tidier.”

“Who says there will even be a next time?”

Seb could’ve told her the truth -- that murder is lot like getting inked: that once you’ve done it, it marks you, and once marked, it becomes increasingly easier to give in to it. He could’ve told her that he’d never met anyone more nonplussed after a kill -- or the fact that even he’d been shocked by the savagery of Griffith’s death.

Instead, he just handed her a pistol and shrugged. “Never say never.”

Polly wasn’t a great shot, but she wasn’t hopeless. He taught her the basics: how to take a weapon apart, how to clean it, what to do in the event of a misfire, and how to make a pistol shot look like a suicide. She was properly awed when he brought out his favourite rifle, and he taught her how to look through the scope properly, with both eyes open.

 

“I told him about Griffiths,” Seb started, on the drive back. “He wants to meet you. Rather insists, actually.”

She opened her mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again before finally asking, “When?”

“Soon,” Seb said, and did his best not to notice her smile.

 

**5.**

 

Jim held the blade of Seb’s knife to his own throat. “Would you?” he asked. “Would you ever?”

Sebastian didn’t even look up from his paper. “I would not,” he said, and turned to the sports section. “If you want your throat slit, Boss, do it yourself.”

This shit had been happening more and more in the days and months since the kidnapping. Fights intentionally picked with strangers, increasingly rougher sex with the roles switched, a renewed interest in poisons. The last straw had been when Seb caught him alone with one of his pistols and a fistful of bullets, giddily loading and reloading it, spinning the barrel.

Sebastian had taken the gun from him then, but not because he thought Jim was suicidal, not really. Drama queen of the highest level? Absolutely. But self-destructive? Jim would never off his favorite person.

He snapped the blade shut. “Would you slit hers?” Jim teased, and stared, intently. “I bet you would. Or would you just bludgeon her to death, the way she did her victim?”

Sebastian looked up. “Is this you being jealous? You haven’t even met her yet.”

Jim ignored the question. “Dinner’s at ten,” he said, and dropped the blade on the table in front of Seb, whispering, “Dress to impress."

 

**6.**

 

Sebastian and Polly ducked into the Conduit Street store, the shop’s ever-present pink neon logo less impactful in the daylight.

“Is she actually here?”

Seb shook his head. “No, she only meets VIPs, and I’m not one of them.”

Polly ran her hand along the racks. “She’s really his favorite designer?”

“They...share certain viewpoints,” Sebastian said, but didn’t go into detail. Polly might have been a newly-minted murderess, but he wasn’t sure she was ready to hear about the creative way Jim had encouraged the desired dissolution of a franchise deal between the designer and a Manchester-based retailer. By the time the negotiation resolved itself, the designer’s profits had increased by £5 million overnight, while the number of working digits on the retailer’s solicitor’s hands had decreased by half.

Polly ended up choose a flowing red silk number, deep as blood itself, which Seb found to be really quite apt.

 

**7.**

 

Sebastian knew very well that Polly hadn’t been waiting outside the penthouse for him that first night, or for most of the nights that followed. Perhaps she’d never been waiting for him. It didn’t matter --  Seb knew that Polly wasn’t a threat, not when it came to Jim.

That said, no one likes to be second place, not even the second in command.

So, in the lift the night of the dinner, he tried to ignore the extra lipstick, the perfectly coiffed hair, the slightly lower heels -- although that last part did make him smile. Had the paps mentioned Jim’s height?

The truth was, it didn’t matter. The laws of attraction, as he understood them, only allowed for three potential outcomes to this meeting, none of which would knock him out of favor with either partner. Either Polly would hate Jim, Jim would hate Polly, or Polly would carry on with her unrequited crush and Jim would roll his eyes. Either way, Seb was in the sweet spot, and no matter what happened, he was prepared to pick up the pieces.

When they reached the top floor, the lift chimed.

She reached for his hand, squeezing it before the doors opened.

Her lips brushed his ears.

“Here goes nothing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**  
>  \- [The Conduit Street store](https://www.visitlondon.com/things-to-do/place/13705-vivienne-westwood-flagship-store). Whatever you may think about James Moriarty, he's brand loyal.  
> \- [The designer's franchise trouble was real](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/business/business-news/vivienne-westwood-group-hervia-agree-683290), but the resolution of it, as depicted here, is entirely fictional. In reality, no appendages were lost in the actual resolution.  
> -[The dress Polly chooses, but in red (which was sold out by chapter's posting)](https://www.viviennewestwood.com/en/women/clothing/dresses/virginia-dress-black-1101002110552N401.html?cgid=women-clothing-dresses#page=1&start=8).
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter posts May 19th! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting, and keeping me on schedule!  
> <3  
> vex.


	6. Jim

**1.**

 

The penthouse was empty, but the music was loud, an old pop song by a 90’s singer who on any other day would’ve been entirely off-brand for Jim.

“Boss?” Seb shouted. “We’re here!”

Jim Moriarty lived for the grand entrance: the dramatic swivel of a high-backed chair, the long, slow descent along a curved staircase, the unexpected parting of a curtain, always while dressed to the nines, that was the norm -- and the bigger the impact, the better. So, imagine Seb’s surprise when Jim simply walked into the room from the kitchen, humming along to the music, with zero fanfare.

“Oh, hello Sebastian,” he said, and turned down the music with a remote before turning to greet his other guest. “And hello, Polly dear -- lovely to see you again.”  
  


 

**2.**

 

“For god’s sake, Seb --  do stop gaping, darling, you look like a fish.” Jim handed him a drink. “Yes, Polly and I know each other. Isn’t that grand?”

Seb turned to Polly. “How?” His brain spun, and he began putting things together that he really should have put together weeks ago. “Oh, Christ...from the courts? From the trial?”

“She was a pleasant distraction,” Jim said, taking pleasure in winding Seb up. He moved closer to Polly than he really needed to. “Made a bit of a scene when she reached into my trousers, right in front of the Judge, the jury, and a handful of very interested aldermen. Shameless, really.”

Seb stared at them both for a moment, and then downed his drink in one go.

 

 

**3.**

 

“So, this is...some kind of set up?” Sebastian stepped back suspiciously, a spark of adrenaline coursing up his spine. “What do you have on me?”

“Loads.” Jim smiled. “But this is a dinner party, not a set up. Relax. Have a canape.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, and then looked to Polly.

“What? He’s not wrong,” Polly said, with an amused look on her face. She passed him the tray. “Can we please have a good time now?”

His hand hovered over the hors d’oeuvres, eyes flickering to Jim’s, a questioning look.  

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jim said, pointedly reaching out to take one for himself. “They’re not poisoned, darling,” he popped it into his mouth. “Not tonight, anyway.”

  
  


**4.**

 

“You utter shite,” Seb hissed, pulling Jim into the kitchen. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

Jim shrugged. “The CCTV wasn't the highest definition. I wasn’t entirely sure until she walked in the door.”

“And you didn’t goddamn tell me?” Seb paced, ranting in a whisper, so Polly wouldn’t hear. “She’s police, remember? She could’ve been undercover, wearing a wire, fuck knows.“

“Undercover cops usually don’t ask their boyfriends to clean up after their murders.” Jim reached up and straightened Seb’s tie. “Look, I know you’re just trying to protect me.”

Seb nodded, glad that Jim got it. “That’s all I’m trying to do, Boss.”

“And I know you just want the best for me.”

“Of course.”

“So you won’t mind nipping out to buy a few more bottles of champagne for the party?” Jim said, pulling some bills from his wallet and tucking them into Seb’s pocket. “And this time make sure to get the Churchill. That Ruinart is revolting.”

  
  


**5.**

 

“Gum Girl,” Jim returned to the living room, and sat down at the baby grand piano. “I sent Seb out.”

“For more gum?” she said, crossing the room to join him.

“Cheeky,” Jim played a few bars of an old standard without looking down at his hands. “Hope you liked your entrance music.”

“My brother always said ‘Jagged Little Pill’ was overrated,” she said, with a smile.

“Your brother is an idiot. As for me, Poll, I simply couldn’t resist.”

There was a pause, and she ran her hand over the glossy surface of the piano’s finish. “So...how long have you known my name?”

“I convinced an entire jury to ignore the evidence of their own eyes and ears - do you really think uncovering your silly little name was a challenge? Names are easy.”

“Not always,” Polly said. “I‘ve been calling you ‘Jimbo’ for months.”

“Hardly your fault. The scarier one is, the more the paps want to belittle you. No one’s scared of  a ‘Jimbo,’ are they? Kind of funny, ‘Jimbo.’ Bit of a bumble, ‘Jimbo.’ But ‘James’, on the other hand, well.” His fingers moved gracefully over the keys. “‘James’ makes them sweat.” He watched her reaction carefully. “Do I make you sweat?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not, I’m genuinely curious. That first day of the trial, when you ran away. There were bars between us then. No bars now. So why aren’t you running?”

Her face flushed. “I-I’m your stalker, remember? If anyone should be nervous, it should be you.”  

He stopped playing. “Is that a threat?”

She shook her head, automatically, immediately. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Bet you have though, haven’t you?” And just like that, the mood shifted. To her credit, she held his gaze for longer than he might have anticipated. _Good. Very good._

Jim ended the song and started a new one, this time a classical piece, one of Rossini’s Péchés de Vieillesse. “You’ve changed, Gum Girl. Designer dress, you’ve done something to your hair, upgraded your lippy -- and oh,” he added, in mock horror, “There’s the fact of all that blood, all over your hands. I know. I saw the closed circuit footage.”

She arched her brow. “Is _that_ a threat?”

“It’s a simple statement of fact,” Jim said. “But what I want to know is what prompted such dramatic life changes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Maybe so,” Polly said, a hint of a smile on her lips, her eyes attuned to his reaction. “Maybe ‘the wild, seductive pull of the strange chaotic attractor.’”

Jim’s expression slowly came alive, as he realized the source of the quote. “You’ve read my book.”

“Cover to cover.”

He went quiet, meditating on her words, and concentrating on the keys beneath his fingers. The implication that his words had motivated her transformation, as well as such singular destruction, was a powerful egostroke and he silently basked in the glow of it for the rest of the movement.  As the echoes of the final notes filled the room, he turned to face her.

“You might be useful.”

  


**6.**

 

Seb returned with the champagne -- the right kind, this time -- and the night immediately turned more lively. It became part celebration, part business meeting, and while Jim was hardly foolish enough to reveal his Holmes plan to Policewoman Polly, as the night wore on, he did drop a few select theoreticals to see how she’d respond.

“Theoretically speaking,” she said, her words heavy with drink, “if you wanted to make someone kill themselves, you know, really make them go through with it, you’d have to up the stakes.”

“Explain.”

“Well, the loss of one person, even if it is your closest friend, can be survived with the support of other people who love you.” She said, curling up on the sofa beside Sebastian.. “So, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You’d have to threaten them all. Every last person they love, in order to ensure complete and utter devastation.”

Jim wasn’t wired for romantic feelings, and certainly not for women, but in that moment, he had to admit, he might’ve fallen just a little bit in love.

  
  


**7.**

 

“What were you hoping to see?”

Jim sat across from her, with Seb at his side, just past the stroke of two in the morning. One of the empty bottles on Pol Roger Cuvee Sir Winston Churchill Brut had rolled under the sofa

“Can you tell me? All those nights, in the car, you waiting outside?” Jim leaned in, eyes focused on her. “Were you hoping to catch us, Polly?”

“Jesus, Jim,” Seb groaned.

“No, let her answer, Seb. Were you hoping to sneak a peek, you voyeur, you?”

Polly shook her head in denial. “I wasn’t--”

“Careful,” Jim said, cutting her off. His black eyes glittered in the candlelight as he leaned back into the cushions. “Because if you’re careful, Gum Girl,” he said, his tone going hypnotic, “You might just get exactly what you want.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Inside the penthouse...[this is what I imagine Jim's penthouse to look like](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ial022VgKNY) (the North one especially) -- but NOT the bedrooms. You won't get a peek of Jim's bedroom...just...yet.  
> \- [You already know what Jim played when Polly came into the penthouse.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=CUjIY_XxF1g)  
> \- The [old standard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXPe72ewgYk) Jim played on the piano during his conversation with Polly. For some reason, I think Jim might appreciate Gershwin.  
> \- The [classical piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DFlEc2Yb80) he played.
> 
> \- [The Ruinart](https://www.forbes.com/sites/nickpassmore/2014/11/12/the-best-champagne-youve-never-heard-of-2-ruinart/#71b6c24f15d5) isn't as bad a champagne as Jim implies here, but [the Churchill](https://www.winemag.com/buying-guide/pol-roger-2008-cuvee-sir-winston-churchill-brut-champagne/), apparently, really is as good as Jim thinks.
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter posts in two weeks! See you then!  
> <3  
> vex.


	7. Polly/Jim

******POLLY**

**1.**

_“Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?”_

Fingers grasped at Seb’s shirt, unbuttoning crisp cotton and pulling it off his shoulders, dragging it down around his waist and using it pull him closer. The move made his back arch, rendering Seb’s profile a thing of beauty, all pale, scarred skin contrasting sharply against the suite’s impeccable charcoal-colored wainscot walls. In fact, everything about Sebastian seemed to be in contrast to this tasteful room, from the luxurious bedding to the oversized crystal chandelier, but that contradiction was something Jim clearly relished. His hands moved reverently across every scar on the man’s chest, over every scab, every cut, every bruise, every flaw.

Sebastian’s body told a story, and it was one Jim seemed to know by heart.

He pushed him down onto the edge of the bed, instantly upending their height differential, and while Sebastian didn’t challenge him, neither did he completely yield. He watched as Jim moved into the space between his thighs, the man deliberately not touching him for a moment, a moment that lasted long enough to frustrate Sebastian.

“Jim, Christ, come on.”

“Patience.”

“I hate it when you do this.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jim’s hands reached up to the sides of Sebastian’s face, tender, kind, their eyes locked.

“No, I don’t,” Sebastian gritted, his breath immediately ragged at Jim’s touch.

When Jim finally did kiss him, it appeared far rougher than the gentle prelude might have suggested, teeth tugging at tender flesh until Seb moaned loudly into his mouth. It wasn’t until many minutes later, when his cock was halfway down Sebastian’s throat, that Jim looked over his shoulder.

“Still with us?”

Polly nodded from across the room, reclining on a velvet chaise, breathlessly watching. “Very much so.”

Jim stroked Seb’s hair fondly. “He’s been half-hard since midnight.”

“I noticed.”

“Hard to miss. I suspect -- god, faster Seb, fuck -- I suspect having both of us in one room was a unique form of torture for him.”

Seb stopped sucking and sat back, annoyed, “You know, I’m right here, you assholes.”

“Yes, yes you are,” Jim said, eyes twinkling as his hands pulled Seb back. “And speaking of...”

Polly gave a little start as Jim turned over, allowing Seb to take hold of his hips and position him as he liked before licking a flat stripe between his cheeks. She’d read about this sort of thing in books, and Denny had once, in confidence, revealed his utter revulsion at being asked to do it once in the loo at Shadow Lounge. He’d made it sound unpleasant -- but to be fair, according to Dennis, if you’re being approached by a stranger in the Shadow Lounge loo, there’s always a high chance of unpleasantness.

Here, though, it was something different.

She watched as Jim shifted, as Seb’s tongue teased him, and Polly was rapt. She felt like she should look away, stop breathing, disappear into the velvet chaise so as not to break the spell - because this, whatever this was, was actual magic. She was here with them, and she could hypothetically reach out and touch them if she so desired -- but while she did desire, those boundaries hadn’t been fully discussed between the endless bottles of Churchill, and she was afraid that one wrong move could make all of this disappear.

And god knew, she most definitely didn’t want that.

  


**POLLY**

**2.**

She woke up on the velvet chaise.

It was still dark outside and morning was just starting to creep into the sky, lovely streaks of purple and gray. Jim and Seb were both crashed out on the bed, Jim on his stomach, spread wide, Seb curling into the spaces that remained.

They were beautiful.

They were terrible.

They were...hers.

Well, in her mind, anyway. To them, who knows? Perhaps they did this sort of thing every day of the week -- and if that was the case, she really needed to go. Truly. Even if that weren’t the case, she needed to go. Now.

She found her shoes behind the chaise, and her bag in the master suite loo where she’d left it last night, when she’d freshened her lipstick, when she’d thought...well, it didn’t matter what she’d thought, really. It was what it was, and now it was over, probably. Staring at her reflection in the loo mirror, she ran a swift hand through her hair, and exhaled. _It was what it was, and it was more than I had._

She exited the loo, crossing back through the master bedroom, and willed herself not to look in their direction. Just as she reached the doorway, a sleepy voice rumbled from the bed.

“Sebastian has an assignment today. And I have meetings.”

She closed her eyes, her hand still on the doorknob. _Fuck_ , she didn’t want excuses. “It’s fine. I--“

“We’ve reservations tonight, at 8:30, at The Arata,” Jim said, his words paired with a rustle of sheets that indicated a return to sleep. Had he been talking in his sleep?

She turned the doorknob.

“Don’t be late, Gum Girl.”

Polly let the words sink in, and finally smiled as she opened the door.

  


**JIM**

**3.**

“Your move.”

Predictably, Sebastian had opted for the Sicilian Defence. Jim suspected that Seb only favored the move because he liked the name. He always did have a soft spot for the Cosa Nostra.

So...how to respond? The Grand Prix attack was lazy, the Levenfish was hmm, an interesting possibility, but the Open Sicilian (2.Nf3 and 3.d4) was clearly the most aggressive way to attack the Sicilian, and with Sebastian, aggression was everything. Jim made his move.

Seb sneered, and eventually made his countermove with a shake of his head. “Why do I even bother playing chess with you?”

“True love, Darling.”

“Says the man with the stalker.”

“Who happens to be your girlfriend,” Jim said, and knocked out one of Sebastian’s rooks.

Seb winced, but whether it was in response to Jim’s chess move or his words was debatable. He made a move. “You know you’re the only one for me.”

“How very romantic,” Jim scoffed, and took one of his bishops.

Seb studied the board. “She left early, anyway. For the best, I suppose.”

Jim looked up. “Is it?”

“Don’t you think?” Sebastian shrugged, and took one of Jim’s pawns, but it hardly felt like victory.

“You tell me,” Jim said, and made an uncharacteristically careless move on the board, one that didn’t go unnoticed.

Sebastian eyed his boss, and made a countermove. “You do realize that you were the one who insisted she stay last night?”

“You say that as if I had a _choice_ , Sebastian!” Jim said, flexing his fingers. “You saw what she did to that policeman, with nothing more than a lunch tray and her bare hands. She’s a monster. A fascinating, glorious, horrifying monster in Vivienne Westwood. I certainly wasn’t going to deny her.”

“Are you telling me that she actually scares you?” Sebastian asked, his mind clearly no longer on the game.

“Don’t be absurd,” Jim frowned, and took advantage of Seb’s distraction by taking his knight. “She interests me. That’s why I’ve invited her to dinner tonight.”

“Tonight. At The Arata.” Seb pushed back from the table. “Have you lost your bloody mind?”

“I think she’ll be a charming addition.”

“She’s not ready, Jim!” Seb objected. “Don’t fuck up things just because you’ve suddenly found yourself interested in a girl.”

“I’m not interested in her as a girl, darling,” Jim said, and pointed to the board. “Now come on, it’s your go.”

“If not that, then what?” Sebastian asked, and hesitantly moved a pawn. “What’s your interest?”

“I’m interested in her in the same way a Russian oligarch is interested in exotic pets,” Jim explained, cornering Seb’s queen. “She’s dangerous, so of course I want her in my stable.”

“She is a person, Jim, not a pet.” Sebastian said, advancing his one remaining bishop. “Just an ordinary person.”

Jim smiled, and then laughed so hard tears came out of his eyes, sighing at the end as he wiped his cheeks dry. “Oh, Seb. Maybe once upon a time, darling, but she’s so not ordinary anymore.” Jim said, before making his final move.

Predictably, Sebastian’s pieces fell.

  


**POLLY**

**4.**

Setsurō Arata, the award-winning chef of the three-Michelin star restaurant that bears his name, was not a man easily intimidated. Three times a week, he artfully crafted 12-course edomae sushi dinners for a very small amount of diners, and he did it right in front of their eyes. The pressure must have been enormous in such an intimate setting, and yet he never let it show.

But that night, when Jim Moriarty walked in?

His knife slipped.

  


**POLLY**

**5.**

_Snapper soup with yuzu._

_White asparagus with Oscietra caviar._

_Sea bass sashimi served on a bed of shredded nori._

◆

“You owe me, Chef.”

Arata protested. “I paid my bill!”

“You paid the bill, yes. And we held up our end of the agreement,” Jim poured himself another cup of saki as Seb tightened his chokehold on the still-struggling chef. “But there’s a problem.”

Arata looked away, his hands trembling as he whispered. “Yakuza.”

  


**POLLY**

**6.**

_Tiger prawn with grilled skin of needlefish._

_Bonito kombu with kelp_ _._

 _Sea eel with Japanese pepper leaf._  

◆

 “Yakuza, yes,” Jim said, shifting his glance, almost imperceptibly, to Seb. He coughed, and leaned forward. “You led my men into a wasp’s nest. And those wasps are now targeting my organization, which, of course, puts you in a very dangerous position.”

Sweat began to bead on Arata’s brow.

Jim took a sip of sake. “Happily, however, the Yakuza have given me an out.”

“An out?”

“They’ll call off their ‘shiba inus’ if I deliver you to them,” Jim explained, downing the rest of his sake. “Well, full disclosure, not you in your entirety. Just your head.”

  
  
  


**POLLY**

**7.**

_Steamed French abalone._

_Grilled Wild King salmon with chestnut puree and kinome._

_Chutoro zuke with truffle._  

◆

 “Polly, dear,” Jim said, his eyes never leaving Arata. “Do bring me the chef’s knife set, would you?”

At the mention of the word knife, a desperate Arata managed to struggle to his feet. There was shouting and another scuffle as Seb easily knocked him back down into his chair, holding him there with a firm hand. Polly retrieved the case and Jim opened it, revealing a half-dozen shining knives of varying lengths. “Beautiful. And quite sharp, Chef, lucky for you.”

“Don’t do this,” he said, stuttering, ”I-I have a family.”

“And they will miss you dearly, I’m sure,” Jim said, running his fingers lovingly along the steel. He stopped at one that took his fancy and pulled it from the case. “What’s this one called?”

Arata’s eyes grew wider. “It’s a-a...a deba.”

“And what’s it used for?”

“For...oh, god. Please, I have money!”

“Yes, money enough to buy this very expensive knife,” he said cordially, and then shifted his tone on a dime, yelling “WHAT’S IT USED FOR, CHEF?!”

  


**POLLY**

**8.**

_Tuna tartare marinated in soy._

_Eel in nori rolls._

_Tamago omelette, garnished with white truffles._  

◆ 

Arata stammered. “It’s for f-filleting fish. Doesn’t...doesn’t...damage the flesh,” he said, and began shaking his head, over and over, “Please don’t do this,” he said, his English words rapidly becoming interspersed with Japanese.

Jim stood and touched Polly’s arm, prompting her to stand with him. Her brain stuttered, registering the feel of his fingers on her flesh for the very first time. His hand moved to her elbow, gingerly bracing it as he pressed heavy handle of the deba into her palm. She looked up at him, eyes going wide as she slowly processed his intent.

“I know you want to,” he said, like a doting father, his smile kind. His breath was suddenly so close and so warm on her ear that Polly was immediately overwhelmed, and grateful for the hand which still gripped her elbow and kept her upright.

_Surely, this wasn’t really happening, was it?_

_This couldn’t be happening._

She looked to Sebastian, who was holding Arata in place. He grimaced, and looked back at Jim. “I told you. She’s not ready.”

“Oh, give her a chance,” scolded Jim. “Don’t be a spoil-sport.”

Seb, so chastised, simply eyed Polly carefully, and then shifted his gaze to the floor, firming up his grip on Arata. As a matter of courtesy (or perhaps it was to give Polly a larger target), he pulled Arata’s head firmly to the side, exposing his neck. Beneath his strong arms, Arata struggled with every ounce of his being.

This was nothing like it had been with Griffiths. She remembered moments of killing Griffiths, blinding moments of clarity, but they were all folded into a sort of murky emptiness, tightly wrapped in rage and soaked in blood. Nothing like what was happening here, here in this brightly lit place, with an audience no less, standing before a man who had done nothing worse to her than prepare her the best meal of her life.

She looked down at the knife in her hands. It was heavy, the blade thick at the back, impossibly thin at its edge, the metal coming to a precise point at the tip. Polly’s fingers played along the knife handle. Was Jim right? Did she want to do this? More to the point, COULD she even do this? Deep pangs of regret surfaced: she hadn’t paid nearly close enough attention in biology class.

“The first cut’s the hardest, dearest,” said Jim, and suddenly it was a dance, with him advancing her forward towards Arata. The closer she got, the more Arata struggled and the tighter Sebastian held on. Her vision narrowed, her eyes locking to the Chef’s neck, to the vein that seemed to pulse in her direction, a bloody tease if she’d ever seen one. Her own pulse seemed to race in time with it, but that couldn’t be it, could it? Could her body want this so badly that her heartbeat was literally syncing up with his -- and if so, what would happen when

if

no, _when_

his finally stopped?  

Polly held her breath and slowly pressed the point of the blade into Arata’s neck. Soft flesh gave way to the blade, without puncturing at first, the skin frustratingly elastic until eventually, and at long last, a bright bead of blood emerged.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- First things first - Jim Moriarty's bedroom (ain't it gorgeous?):  
>   
> \- [The velvet chaise](https://www.wayfair.com/furniture/pdp/house-of-hampton-yarmouth-chaise-lounge-hohm5983.html?piid=22320570) (and good news - at posting, this is on sale!)  
> \- Before you ask, no, I don't know anything about chess, and the moves that are made in this chapter do not align with actual Sicilian Defence or Open Sicilian moves. However, if you wish to understand more about the Sicilian Defence, [this is a good place to start](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sicilian_Defence).  
> \- Setsurō Arata and The Arata restaurant are based on [a real chef and a real restaurant, The Araki](http://www.silverspoonlondon.co.uk/2017/11/the-araki-inside-londons-most-expensive-restaurant.html). To the best of my knowledge, Chef Araki is NOT involved in any Moriarty-type schemes in real life. No chefs were hurt in this fictional depiction.  
> \- As this chapter ends, you might be curious to read about [the misconceptions of knife-to-throat intimidation, and basic neck anatomy](http://schaferselfdefense.blogspot.com/2014/03/knife-to-throat-misconception.html).
> 
> Am I the only one who really wants some sushi right now? ;-p
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see y'all right here in two weeks for the next installment!  
> <3  
> vex.
> 
> P.S. If anyone has any ideas how I can fix the bug that reposts my original chapter 1 End Notes at the end of every other chapter's End Notes, that would be a great help. I've done all the fixes I can think of and can't get rid of it!


	8. Sebastian/Polly

**SEBASTIAN**

**1.**

At the first sight of blood, Jim gently grasped Polly’s wrist and stopped the progress of her knife. “That’s our point, beautifully made, thank you, Polly dear.” He turned and smirked at Sebastian. “And you thought she wasn’t ready.”

Sebastian didn’t dignify Jim’s taunt with a response, instead focusing on maintaining his grip on the now-baffled chef.

“What’s happening? Why’d you stop me?” Polly asked, also confused and more than a little irritated.

“You did well.” Jim said, and took the knife from her, wiping it neatly and returning it to its place in the wrap. When he was done, he handed the kit to her. “Now, be a lamb and return this to the kitchen.”

Polly did as she was told, and Jim turned his attention to Arata. “Well, that was exciting!” He nodded in her direction, conspiratorially. “She’s a new addition, isn’t she marvelous? Pretty vicious. Pretty and vicious. Anyway.” Jim said, closing his eyes and waving his hand to change the subject. ”£350 per person, nine people per sitting, two sittings per night, three nights a week. Adding in estimated alcohol sales, that brings it to close to £25,000 a week, is that about right?”

Arata nodded, confused at the abrupt shift in conversation.

“More to the point, that’s,” Jim looked to the sky as he tabulated in his head, “nearly 3.6 million yen a week.”

Arata huffed out a breath, understanding. Polly re-entered the dining room and stood beside Jim.

“So, one night’s take is a little over a million yen,” Jim said, quietly. “I might be able to convince the Yakuza to accept a cash payment from you of one night’s take, per week, indefinitely, in exchange for your head, if you were amenable. I’d be willing to act as go-between - for a small additional percentage, of course.”

Arata, open-mouthed, looked from Jim to Sebastian in disbelief.

“Or I could always have Polly fetch your knife kit again?” Jim leaned in, making a face and speaking in a stage whisper, “In truth, I think she’s a little upset with me that I made her stop.”

Polly rolled her eyes, but Seb couldn’t help but see her flushed cheeks, her bitten lip. She was positively loving this.

 

_Christ, enough already._

 

“Say something, mate,” Sebastian nudged Arata, roughly. “Give up some of your take or give up your head. Which do you want?”

That seemed to spur him to action. “My head! I want my head!”

“That’s that, then,” Jim nodded smartly, and stood, sliding his chair back into its proper place. “Sebastian, let him go. You’ll be contacted soon with the details of the exchange. But, of course, all of this is conditional upon you keeping your mouth solidly shut about myself and my organization, am I understood?”

“Understood, completely, Mr. Moriarty.” Arata said, and stood, shakily. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”

“See to it that you don’t make me regret it,” Jim said, and held out his hand to seal the deal. “And Chef?”

“Yes?”

Jim clasped his hand tightly. “When you wake up tomorrow morning, and see the beauty of another sunrise, one that you might not have seen but for me, I want you to understand the full weight of the debt you now owe me.”

Arata looked as if he might cry, but the time for crying was over.

“Good talk!” Jim said, with a clap of his hands. “Now let’s have another order or three of those omelettes, for takeaway!”

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**2.**

In the car, on the way home, with a takeaway box of Tamago omelette on her lap, Polly asked. “You really think the Yakuza will take the deal?”

Jim and Sebastian looked at one another, smiling like they had a secret.

“What?” Polly frowned, just before they burst out laughing. “Oh Christ, what’s so funny?”

Jim pointed at her. “You should see your face!”

“Babydoll,” Sebastian started, with kindness in his voice. “There is no Yakuza. At least, not involved in Arata’s job.”

Polly looked from Seb to Jim. “I don’t understand.”

“It turns out, you see, that chefs are gossipy little shits,” Jim explained. “And Arata, well he needed a bit of a reminder to remain discreet. When he mentioned the Yakuza tonight, I couldn’t help but run with it.”

“Nothing like the threat of decapitation to put the fear of god into someone,” Seb added.

“And so this dinner...?”

“Was just an excuse to have a wonderful meal before winding him up,” Jim smiled.

“And the million yen each week?”

“Will now go directly into our accounts. A small, unexpected windfall.” Jim beamed. “But don’t worry -- we’ll make sure you get your cut, so to speak...”

She ignored Jim’s joke, and his offer, if only for the moment. “So, you were _never_ intending on removing that man’s head?”

“And risk bloodstains on this suit? Hardly.” Jim, responded, loudly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Disappointed, darling?”

Polly didn’t know what to think, but she knew what she should say. “No, of course not. No. Absolutely not.”

“Definitely not,” Seb agreed and then, as an afterthought, added, “I mean, not with that deba, anyway. No way that blade could sever a spinal cord.”

 

 

**POLLY**

**3.**

Polly wouldn’t return home for weeks.

It didn’t make her feel nearly as guilty as she might’ve thought. Other than bills and junk mail piling up in the postbox -- and Denny sending her increasingly more aggravating texts -- her presence at home wasn’t really missed.

At the penthouse, however, her presence was increasingly appreciated. Jim doted on her, and it very nearly made up for the fact that sex was strictly...vicarious. Sebastian remained genuinely confused about the nature of Jim and Polly’s interest in one another, but kept her bed warm on the nights he didn’t spend with Jim.

As for the velvet chaise in the master bedroom, well, it saw a lot more use in the weeks that followed...

 

 

**POLLY**

**4.**

“I thought we might get to know each other better,” Jim said, and he said it so sincerely that Polly’s brain stuttered a bit.

“Oh,” she said. “What do you--” she blushed. “I mean, how so?”

“Actually, what I meant to say was, let’s both get to know you better,” Jim corrected himself, and Polly didn’t quite follow. In her time at the penthouse, she hadn’t spent much time in the media room -- after all, who needs telly when Jim Moriarty’s sitting beside you? -- but on that day, Jim had specifically asked her to join him there.

He patted for her to sit down. “Now, I’ve already told you that I’ve peeked at this a bit on my own,” Jim said, pulling a flashdrive from his pocket. “But I think it’s high time you saw it for yourself.”

Polly’s blood ran cold. “Is that...?”

“Yes, it is.” He stood, inserted the drive into the television, and then reached for the remote. On the screen was a hazy CCTV image of the empty court cellblock. “Admittedly, it’s a little slow going in the beginning, but, darling, does it ever pick up at the end.”

Polly felt sick as the television light flickered in the dark room. “Why are you showing me this?”

He ignored her, and settled back into the couch.

“Jim!” Polly shouted, sitting up. “I don’t want to watch this. I don’t even want this to exist. Do you know what would happen if this fell into the wrong hands? Get rid of it!”

“You can hit stop, if you like,” Jim said, and handed her the remote. “Or,” he said, pausing meaningfully, “we can keep watching and you can see for yourself how beautiful you are.”

The video played on before them, still an empty cell, but Polly, remote in hand, took in nothing other that one, single word. “Beautiful?

Jim nodded, and brushed his hand against hers. “Beautiful.”

After a long hesitation, Polly slowly leaned back into the sofa and nodded, extending the remote to turn the volume higher.

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**5.**

“Dig your nails in.”

Jim’s voice was like honey, and for the second night in a row, Sebastian found himself in Jim’s suite and at his mercy. This time, however, his play was by proxy.

“You can do better than that, Polly. Harder.”

Seb gasped, feeling the kind of sensation he felt with one lover, but at the hands of the other. Polly may have been content entertaining herself on the chaise lounge, but Jim was infinitely more hands on. He paced, slowly, around the bed and Sebastian felt exponentially _seen_ , from every angle. Sharing was not new to Sebastian and Jim, but it had never been like this, and it most certainly had never included a woman. Seb had never seen Jim take this particular approach before, at times going so far as to demonstrate a movement, or even position her hands. Jim made a puppet of Polly, and all that was missing were the strings.

And hell, knowing Poll, she was probably having a better time of it than anyone.

“Just like that,” Jim purred to Polly, before bending his mouth close to Sebastian’s ear. “Make him work for it.”

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**6.**  

The doorbell rang.

Visitors were rare in the penthouse, and it was even rarer for Jim to permit them entry. Seb quickly stowed his weapons out of sight as Jim instructed Polly to open the door.

“Are you Polly Wright?”

“Yes, that’s me,” said Polly. “Can I help you?”

Jim called out from the sitting room. “Come in, Stuart.”

Polly stepped aside to grant the man entry. He was a small man - trim, neat and older, carrying a small leather satchel. “Good to see you again, Sir,” he said to Jim, tipping his head.

“It’s been too long,” said Jim, crossing the room to shake his hand. “Send them my regards?”

“Of course. And they send theirs.”

“And now a new challenge,” Jim said to him, gesturing to Polly. She looked bewildered and Jim was clearly relishing it. “Darling, Stuart is a Master Tailor who works for a select group of designers. He’s here to take your measurements.”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“About fashion? Always.” Jim said. “And I mean, no offense, Gum Girl, but your wardrobe is atrocious. I simply refuse to look at it any longer than I have to.”

“Jim, you shouldn’t. You can’t.” Seb noticed that at no time did Polly actually say the word “No.”

“I can and I am. No more protesting. Stuart, do your magic.”

Polly giggled, and the tailor pulled a notebook and tape measure from his satchel. Jim left them to their efforts, exiting the room, but taking an intentional detour past Sebastian on his way out.

“You remember this?” Jim said to him, pointedly, looking back at the scene in the sitting room.

 _Asshole_ , thought Seb, as he rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I remember that old geezer being handsy as fuck.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, that smug little shit, and echoed Seb’s own words from earlier. “Is this _you_ being jealous?”

“Why should I?” Sebastian said, after a moment’s hesitation. “He’s bent as a nine bob note, after all, right?”

 

 

**POLLY**

**7.**

“You coming?” Viv asked, as they finished up their last rounds of the day.

Polly returned to work, at Jim and Seb’s suggestion. She knew, of course, that they probably just wanted to maintain an ear at court, but it wasn’t like she didn’t have a vital reason of her own to return. Checking on the progress on the Griffiths case was important, as was giving off the impression that everything was as it had always been with her. So, she’d don the uniform, file the paperwork, and goss with Viv like everything was normal. It didn’t take her long to find out that the investigation into Griffith’s disappearance had stalled, perhaps permanently. In confidence, Chief mentioned to her that “...there had been some gambling debts,” as if that was enough to explain away the man’s disappearance entirely.

Could it really be that easy?

In the wake of Jim Moriarty, everything seemed suddenly so easy. Work was easier with secrets to think about. During her rounds, she’d imagine what Jones and Price might say if they knew she’d been living in a Mayfair penthouse these past few weeks. During court, she’d daydream, about telling the entire assembly that she spent her evenings with two of Britain’s Most Wanted criminals. And when she delivered dinners, the tactile memory of the tray, the feel of it in her hand, slamming hard into Griffith’s face, was enough to take her breath away.

More than anything else, though, the memory of the CCTV footage powered her past daily frustrations and petty concerns. A woman like the one in that footage wouldn’t fret about appearances, or worry about what anyone else was thinking. She most certainly wouldn’t let ordinary people push her around - and she didn’t, not anymore, because she was that woman, minus the bloodstains, minus the bruises, and minus the ragged flesh beneath her nails.

So, when the occasional arseholes elbowed her on the tube, “accidentally” rubbed her bum in the lift, or told her to fucking smile at the shops, Polly remembered that if pressed, if she really wanted to, she could crush their tracheas and rip out their throats with her bloody bare hands.

If she really wanted to.

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**8.**

“I think she might have some interesting insight.”

“No.” _No, no and NO._ Sebastian sat up in his chair. “Bad idea, Boss.”

“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Sebastian,” Jim said, sharply.

Sebastian did his best not to lose control. _Interesting fucking insight my arse._ He breathed, treading carefully. “Let’s just take a moment, alright? Point one, she’s police, Jim, still. It’s bad enough you involved her in the Arata business, but this is much, much bigger. And I know you see her as some adorable monster, but this is a nuanced mission. There’s zero call for monstrous deeds with this one. I mean, best case scenario, Holmes offs himself, nice and quiet, his reputation tanks soon after and the job is done. No one gets their hands dirty, not even me.”

Jim swiveled in his chair, his expression one of sudden understanding. “Oh,” he said, in a way that made Sebastian want to punch him.

“What?” Seb said, impatiently.

“Well, all along, I’ve understood what a personal threat this current situation with Polly might pose for you, but it wasn’t until this moment that I understood the professional threat she poses, as well. Fascinating.”

Seb stood, stunned by the implication.

Jim looked down at the open file on his desk before looking up, momentarily, and gesturing to the door. “You may go, Sebastian.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- I'm not sure if a Deba could sever a human spinal cord, but [here's a link to it making short work of slicing a fish (including it's spine)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5cmMvH-auWs).
> 
> \- Did smart TVs have the capability to play thumbdrives in the early 20teens? [You betcha!](https://forum.videohelp.com/threads/322160-Playing-Media-Files-on-Samsung-TV-Through-the-USB-Port)
> 
> Next chapter will post on July 7th - thanks, as always, for reading, and comments are always appreciated! :-D  
> <3  
> vex.


	9. Jim/Polly

  **JIM**

**1.**

Seb called from the car. 

“The North Koreans have finally come to the table. They’ve stationed themselves in the top floor of a cigar shop on Baker Street.”

Sitting at his desk, Jim ticked a box on the paper in front of him. “So, that’s Dyachenko -- first out of the gate, good for you, Ludmila -- then Sulejmani, Basra and now Jeung. Excellent.”

“You think they’ll do it?”

“Would certainly save us some time and effort,” Jim said, and closed the file. “But even if they don’t, he’ll be out of our hair soon. One way or another.”

“One way or another,” Seb agreed and there was a delicious pause, one that told Jim that Sebastian was about to make a mistake. 

 

**POLLY**

**2.**

_Dyachenko._

_Sulejmani._

_Basra._

_Jeung._

 

Names, presumably, foreign ones at that, overheard as Polly made her way downstairs to breakfast. The things you hear when you live with a criminal mastermind -- and while you could take the girl out of the precinct, apparently you couldn’t take the precinct out of the girl.

She’d noticed, of course. Conversations between Jim and Seb would often go silent when she walked into a room, They’d sometimes text each other at the dinner table, and occasionally, they’d pass things to one another -- papers, pictures, thumbdrives, cash -- right under her nose. They tried to be discreet, but they couldn’t fool her, not after all the drug drops Polly had witnessed as a beat officer. She knew the body language, the facial tells, the slight-of-hand tricks. 

All in all, It was enough to pique anyone’s curiosity, and for Polly, it became a bit of a game, collecting information and idly trying to piece it together, like a car boot sale jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing. She couldn’t help but think that if she had a little time to investigate, she could find more of those pieces, pieces that could help her make sense of whatever was in the works. With Jim staying so close to home, though, she had little opportunity to do so. 

 

_Dyachenko._

_Sulejmani._

_Basra._

_Jeung._

 

She rolled the names over and over in her mind. 

 

**JIM**

**3.**

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about Polly,” Seb said, over the phone. “It’s complete bollocks.”

“Is it?” Jim leaned back, and imagined Sebastian, squirming in the driver’s seat. 

“Look, I realize things have been a little...off since Mycroft took you--”

“We’ve talked about this. Just do your bloody job.”

“My job is to protect you.”

“Your job is to do as I say,” Jim said, his voice rising. “That’s it. And if you’ve forgotten that, perhaps a little competition will do you some good.”

For a moment, there was nothing but measured breathing and the sounds of traffic on the other end of the line. Jim could almost hear Sebastian’s gears turning.

“You know I’m the goddamn reason why Polly’s here in the first place.”

“Oh, Sebbie,” Jim laughed, intentionally provoking him. “We both know that’s not true.”

On the other end of the line, more silence. 

“Fine,” Sebastian eventually said. “But if you actually think that an untested, unstable novice, one who’s only ever killed in the heat of passion, can take my place? Then you truly are mad.” 

 

His words hung in the air for a moment before Sebastian had the decency to hang up the phone. 

 

**JIM**

**4.**

The first day Seb didn’t come home, Jim acted like he didn’t notice, and then smashed his phone.

The second day, Jim got drunk, dismissed a housekeeper for not looking at him and impulsively ordered the firebombing of a Nicaraguan cabal. 

On the third day, Jim went shopping.

 

**POLLY**

**5.**

Downstairs, the door slammed.

Days earlier, Jim and Sebastian had had a fight, that much was clear. Sebastian told her he intended to stay away from the penthouse until his temper cooled, while Jim, on the other hand, alternately stomped around the flat, and then retreated into his office for hours without a word. She didn’t think he’d slept at all since the fight. Polly considered leaving, going back to her old flat, but ultimately decided to stay, if only to see what happened next.

And now, suddenly, there was this door slam.

It took a good long moment for her to realize that she was alone for the first time since she’d moved into the penthouse. 

 

_Dyachenko._

_Sulejmani._

_Basra._

_Jeung._

 

How could she possibly resist?

 

**POLLY**

**6.**

“What’s in your medicine cabinet, Jim?” Polly asked, pulling it open. Surprised by the lack of pharmaceuticals (but not at all surprised by the overabundance of skin care products), she moved on to his closet. All she found there were too many clothes and a set of expensive-looking luggage. In his bedside drawer, she found an unfamiliar, locked mobile phone, as well as a stack of letters written in what appeared to be Gaelic.

In Jim’s office, however, she hit paydirt -- a photo of a man who looked familiar at first, but one who, upon closer inspection, wasn’t who she thought it was at all. 

And just like that, so many things fell into place.

 

**POLLY**

**7.**

“So, what’s up, Polly?”

“What? Can’t a girl visit her brother at work?” She asked, looking around Dennis’ coffee shop, eyeing what appeared to be a brand new sofa. She ran her hand over the cushion. “Fancy. This is new. Get lucky with a scratchcard?”

“Got lucky, exactly,”  Dennis wiped his hands on his apron and placed two small cups on the table. “Sit down, Poll.”

“I’m good.”

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head and pointing at the couch. “You show up at my shop, on a random Tuesday, with a look on your face like you’re about to pop, and I’m supposed to let you by with an ‘I’m good’? Not a chance. Sit down and spill.”

Polly sat down, but hesitated before speaking. How could she possibly explain her situation without actually explaining it? “Okay. I’m here for some advice.”

“Clearly,” he snarked, and poured cream into her cup.

“I found out about something,” she blurted out..  “A...business opportunity.”

“What kind of business opportunity?”

“An extralegal one,” she said, eyeing him carefully as she took a chocolate biscuit from the tray. 

Dennis sat back and crossed his arms. “This have anything to do with your penthouse-owning sugardaddy?”

“He’s not a sugardaddy.”

“Right. Like that dress you’re wearing was bought off-the-rack.” 

Polly reddened, and fiddled with the hem of her skirt. “It’s not like that.”

 

**JIM**

**9.**

“Not one word,” Seb said angrily, pointing his finger at Jim in the parking lot of Waterstone’s. “Not one word out of you until we’re in the car.”

Jim kept positively mum.

“You know I was on a rooftop when you texted? Doing a job you arranged weeks ago. Yeah, bet you forgot all about that,” Seb scowled. “There I was, 140 feet in the air, gripping a goddamn Barrett M82, about to take a shot and suddenly, I’m negotiating with a bloody bookstore manager?” He shook his head. “And of course the mark picked that exact moment to leave the building, so the job got botched. A JOB, Jim.” 

That hurt. The Sri Lankan industrialist who’d hired them was not a man you wanted to cross. Then again, neither was Jim, particularly right now. 

“Jim, hello?!?” Seb shouted. “Are you even fucking listening to me? Jesus Christ.” He slammed his hands against the steering wheel. “You want to tell me what happened back there?”

Jim shrugged. “I just went to buy the Grimm’s copies.” 

“And you, what?” Sebastian asked, his voice biting, “Decided that today might be a good day to terrorize some children?”

“Every fairytale deserves a good, old-fashioned villain...” Jim mumbled, staring out the window.

“What?” Seb spat, his eyes on Jim now, not on the road. “What did you say?”

“The staff overreacted,” Jim said, turning to him and turning _on_ him -- because Sebastian was overreacting, too. Probably, anyway. Jim didn’t really remember enough of what had happened to say for sure, but who cared? Seb always overreacted these days. Jim glared at him and allowed himself to get angry, locking eyes with him, pushing him, daring Seb not to look away. The car was still speeding through traffic, and suddenly it became a game of chicken, with neither man willing to back down - and neither did, either, until car horns began blaring behind them, around them, until cars began braking, and tires squealed. Seb, at last, broke the stare, and swerved their car just in time to avoid a lorry, the abrupt move jostling them both in their seats, adrenaline surging. 

In the aftermath, Sebastian breathed heavily, but kept his eyes firmly on the road. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You told them sick fucking things about stories they love. Children, Jim.”

“And that’s a crime?” Jim asked, not able to keep the sullenness out of his voice.

“You were _out of control_.” 

“I was getting into character.”

“Right. The bloody Storyteller,” Sebastian snorted, and knowing exactly where to place the knife, went in for the kill. ”Fucking fantasy, that.”

Jim reacted instantly, instinctively, violently, lurching forward and grabbing the collar of Sebastian’s shirt, as if he were trying to rip him out of the driver’s seat. “You shut your fucking mouth!”

The car swerved again, and the car horns returned. 

“Richard Brook is a goddamned fantasy, Jim,” Seb shouted, pushing Jim back into his own seat,. “Like anyone would let James Moriarty near a child. Not after what happened to your brother.”

Jim’s expression slipped. _Richie._ He pushed the emotions down, willing himself not to give in to it, desperately trying to turn back to the here and now. “I...didn’t see the harm in it. The stories. The children were...” He searched his brain, demanding a bookstore memory, but none came. “The children were enjoying it, weren’t they?”

The moment he said it, he knew he’d made a mistake, and that feeling was confirmed the moment he saw Sebastian’s expression change from angry to concerned. _Fuck,_ how he hated that look. 

“Jim,” Sebastian said, and exhaled, his tone shifting to explaining, rather than accusing. “You told them ‘Rock-A-Bye Baby’ was about dead babies and that ‘Ring Around the Rosy’ was about the fucking _plague_.” 

And just like that, memories resurfaced. Some, anyway. He sniffed, playing it off, trying to regain some of his dignity. “It’s not my fault children’s literature is so grotesque.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “You also told them that ‘Rub-A-Dub-Dub, Three Men in a Tub’ was about wanking. They’re _five_ , Jim. They don’t even know what the fuck wanking is.”

“No, but their mothers sure did,” Jim said, giggling, suddenly remembering the horde of comically horrified mums.

“That’s not funny.”

“Yes it is.”

Seb pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath. “Fucking hell. Yes, fine, it fucking is,” he allowed. “But Jim, you have to quit this shit. People know your face now.”

“What does it matter?” Jim asked, feeling perverse. “I’m mad, after all. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Context, Jim,” Sebastian said, correcting him. “I said you were mad if you thought Polly could replace me. But I don’t think you do. Not really. Do you?”

Jim sighed. “No, not really.”

“Then I don’t think you’re mad. Not really.”

“Good. That’s good.” Jim said meditatively. 

Seb turned the car, taking them out of traffic and onto the side streets. “Look, I...shouldn’t have brought up Richie.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Jim agreed. “But I’ll forgive it this once. Forgive and forget. That’s what sane people do, after all.”

Sebastian laughed, out of relief, more than anything. “So you’re telling me I should forgive you for choking me and nearly killing us both back there?” 

“If you’re sane, you must, yes,” Jim confirmed. 

“Even the bit where you nearly tore off my collar? I mean, this is Tom Ford, that really would’ve been a crime.”

“Agreed, but yes, you must forgive even that,” Jim said, with a shy smile.

“Fine then,” Sebastian said, as they pulled into their spot in the penthouse parking garage. Before getting out of the car, he turned to Jim, and stroked his cheek. “I forgive you, Jim. Of course I do.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Jim said, and allowed himself to get lost in Sebastian’s sweet gaze, for just long enough. “You fucking better.”

 

**POLLY**

**10.**

Polly drew her feet up under her, coffee cup in hand. “Strange times, Denny.”

“Strange as in bad?” he asked, resting his chin in his hand.

“Strange as in strange.” She sipped her coffee and spoke softly, confidentially. “Have you ever found out something unexpected about yourself, like...you were good at something you never imagined?”

“I’m good at spending other people’s money,” snarked Dennis, “but other than that, babe, all my talents are pretty much as expected. Oh god, this isn’t some sort of weird sex thing, is it? Is it tantra? It’s tantra, isn’t it? Just like Sting and that Trudie person.”

“No!” Polly said, aghast. “No, it’s not about sex, Denny, Christ.”

“So what is it?”

“I...can’t say.”

Dennis frowned. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Me? Please. Like...I mean, Rozzer, remember?” she said, managing a smile, gesturing to herself. Lying to Dennis was harder than she’d imagined. “I’m probably just working too hard.”

“Burning the candle at both ends,” he said, nodding, patting her arm. “Trying to impress your chief during the day, and then at night, trying to impress your sugardaddy so he’ll let you in on his project, is that it?”  

She nodded, slowly. He’d gotten the gist of it, anyway. “Thing is, he doesn’t know I want in on the project. He doesn’t even know I know about it.”

“Then tell him.”

“What if he says no?”

“Poll, hon, if you want something, go get it. Tell him what you want. Think it through, sort out what you and only you can bring to the table, and then make your pitch.” Dennis said, and then shrugged. “And if he says no, then, you know, suck his dick.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sucking dick isn’t the answer, Den.”

“Sucking dick is always the answer. Trust me,” He said, and shot her a sly smile. “You know, you’re not the only one with a love life, kiddo.”

Polly looked up, genuinely thrilled. “Oh, Denny, no!”

“Oh, Polly, yes!” He grinned, and settled in to dish.

 

**POLLY**

**11.**

Polly decided to make her move over brunch. 

“I’m curious,” she said, carefully, “if either of you have really considered the role of the police in all of this.”

Sebastian reached for the hollandaise sauce. “What are you on about, Poll?”

“I’m talking about your plan to destroy the life and discredit the legacy of Sherlock Holmes,” she said, casually reaching for her mimosa. “That is, unless you’ve some other big plot in the works?”

Jim slowly removed his napkin from his lap, wiped his mouth, and put it on the table beside his plate. “How, exactly, did you learn of this?” 

“From the two of you, mostly.” Polly replied, unfazed. “One of you would say something and then the other would let slip some minor detail that maybe wasn’t-so-minor when paired up with what the other one said. It didn’t take a genius.”

“Just someone who listened,” Seb murmured, and cast a concerned look at Jim before looking back at her. “So, ah, Poll, now that you know what you _think_ you know, what are you going to do about it?”

“What, like am I going to go warn the man? Contact Kitty, tell her it’s off? Ring up Mycroft?” She said, showing them she damn well knew what was going on. “Look, I don’t care what you have against Sherlock Holmes. Guy’s a prick, I’m sure you have plenty of reasons to ruin him. And in theory, your plan is good, but it’s not great. So with all that understood, what do you think I’m gonna do about it?” Polly asked, looking from one to the other before smartly spearing a strawberry on the end of her fork. “I’m gonna fix it.”

 

**JIM**

**12.**

“Aren’t you adorable?” Jim said, humoring her. “But our plan doesn’t need fixing.”

“Yeah, it does,” Polly said, mid-chew. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not bad, but there are a few glaring holes, and the biggest one has to do with the role of the police.”

“Really?” Seb asked. “How so?”

“Don’t get defensive, Sebastian,” Polly said. “Look, the whole thing depends on the idea that people at the Met will be willing to believe the worst about Sherlock, right? But is he really that bad? I mean, they’re the ones who bring him in on cases.”

“You saw him in court,” Jim reminded her. “He’s petulant, ill-tempered and thoroughly disagreeable. We’ve heard rumblings that specific individuals within the force have had enough, particularly after all the recent publicity.”

“So, you’re hanging the whole plan on a _rumor_ that Sherlock isn’t liked within the force. Wouldn’t you rather hang it on fact?” 

“Of course we would,” Seb said, begrudgingly. “The question is how.”

“And the answer is simple: You just happen to know someone with a badge, a uniform and the ability to grouse intelligently about law enforcement problems for hours on end.” Polly explained, making her pitch. “I can spark dissent where there isn’t any. Stoke fires where there is. It could even be fun.” 

Jim looked over at Sebastian for a long moment, and when he ultimately nodded, Jim turned to Polly brightly and returned his napkin to his lap. “So, when can you start?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- First and foremost, I must give a HUGE shout out to BakerStMel, for kicking my ass in the best possible way this week! If you enjoyed this chapter at all, it's because Mel held my hand, showed me how I'd lost the "in medias res" aspect in early drafts of this chapter and helped me fix it. If you are a writer and you do not have a Beta reader, I sincerely encourage you to get one, stat! She's made all the difference in the world, and I adore her. <3
> 
> \- Kudos, also, to Ariane Devere! This fic has required me to get more familiar with The Reichenbach Fall episode than anyone ever should, and [Ariane's transcript](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html) has been a much appreciated resource!
> 
> \- Waterstone's at Piccadilly is the largest bookstore in London. [This article includes a helpful pic of the Children's section](https://londonist.com/2016/05/londons-biggest-bookshop)!
> 
> \- [Children's literature IS grotesque, Jim!](https://www.ocregister.com/2012/07/17/baby-brain-creepy-nursery-rhymes-we-all-love-anyway/) (And [oddly sexual, too!](https://www.thesun.co.uk/living/1882525/the-real-meaning-behind-these-kids-nursery-rhymes-will-creep-you-out/))
> 
> \- Peeking into Jim's mind has led me to read up on psychopathy, and [this article](https://www.psychiatrictimes.com/psychotic-affective-disorders/hidden-suffering-psychopath) really helped me get a better handle on writing for the character. 
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, thanks to Mel -- and to all of you, for reading and letting folks know about this story! With Tumblr less active than it once was, and with my Twitter being more forward-facing than my Tumblr, I can't promote my work to as wide an audience and I once could.
> 
> If this week has taught me anything, it's that this style of writing requires a little more "marinating" than my usual stories, requiring multiple editing passes, to winnow the story down to its barest components. As we near the last third of the story, that means it might occasionally take me a little longer to produce each chapter. For now, I will stick with posting a chapter every two weeks, but if I don't feel a chapter is up to snuff, I will delay it. If a delay happens, I will always let you know by updating the End Notes from the previous chapter.
> 
> With all that in mind, the next chapter will post on Sunday, July 28th!
> 
> Thanks so much, y'all!  
> <3  
> vex.


	10. Polly/Sebastian/Jim

 

**POLLY**

**1.**

“Are you Detective Sally Donovan?”

Sally looked up from her desk. “Yes?”

Polly stood before her, holding a stack of files in one hand, and holding out her other hand  to shake. “Hi, I’m Polly Wright, court security officer from Central Criminal Court. I called earlier?”

A look of understanding came over Sally’s face. “Right, you need signatures on something or other? Please, have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**2.**

Addlestone was an hour away from the center of London by car, but Sebastian arrived at the disused factory in nearly half the time. 

This time savings allowed him to securely lock down the entrances and exits, confirm the precise child dropoff location and sweep for vermin, all while still leaving him enough time for a quick side trip before returning home.

Considering recent events, the side trip was important, but it was even more important that no one ever know it occurred. 

 

  
  
**POLLY**

**3.**

“I mean, the bloody frustrating thing is that the freak is good at what he does,” Sally admitted. “Damn good. That’s why he gets access, because he sees things that no one else does.”

Polly frowned. “How does he do it, though? How does he see so much?” 

The canteen bustled around them. After getting the (totally unnecessary) signatures at Sally’s desk, Polly commented on Sally’s holiday photos, complimented her shoes, complained about the boy’s club at court, and, most significantly, brought up the unusual behaviour of one Sherlock Holmes during the trial. Just like that, Sally asked if she’d like to get a cuppa.  

“That’s the thing. No one knows,” Sally said, leaning in conspiratorially. “He claims it’s just ‘observation,’ but it can’t be just that. We’ve all got eyes, don’t we?” 

“What are you saying?” asked Polly, locking into full goss mode. “I mean, you don’t think--”

Sally nodded knowingly. “I think a lot of things, Polly. A lot.”

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**4.**

Dr. Ellison sighed and closed the file on his desk. “Mr. Moran, we’ve been through this.” 

“I’m telling you, he needs medication.”

“Agreed. But you can’t _make_ him take his meds. Right now, he has the right to refuse treatment. However,” Ellison said, leaning forward, “if he were sectioned--

“Not an option,” Sebastian interrupted him, definitively.

“As his surrogate decision-maker, it would be well within your legal rights.”

Seb didn’t hesitate. “I said no.”

“Then you already know what I’m going to say next.” The doctor sat back in his chair. “I can’t help you.”

Sebastian knew he was playing a dangerous game, coming here. But the stress of the impending plan, the increasingly frequent mood shifts, the uptick in impulsive behaviour, it was all coming to a head. “What if I ground up the pills, put them in his food? He’d never know.”

“He would, you know he would,” Ellison said bluntly, “and then where would you be?”

“Where will I be if I don’t try to help?” Seb stood up, his voice strained. “If he has a bad day and then gets in trouble, lands in jail, or worse? What if he gets himself killed, Doc? Where will I be then?”

Ellison looked away, and it was clear to Sebastian that this visit had been a mistake. 

 

 

**POLLY**

**5.**  

_“Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?”_

Polly watched Jim emerge from the penthouse’s small lap pool. The air was close here, and even with short sleeves, her police uniform didn’t breathe well. She watched as he reached for a towel, brought it to his face, and ran it through his hair. _Lovely._ Well-aware of the fact that he was being watched, he seemed to linger beneath that towel much longer than necessary -- a manipulation, probably, an intentional tease -- but in that moment, Polly didn’t care. Water rivulets ran down his chest, droplets rolling along his abdomen, spilling past his navel to the hair below, moving down to his thighs. She couldn’t help but marvel at how fit he was for such a cerebral man, and how precisely groomed. Men like him were not made for girls like her, that she knew, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the view.

“So. It’s going well with the Detective Sergeant?”, Jim asked when he finally lowered the towel, breaking her concentration.  

She nodded quickly, startled, and directed her eyes north. “Yeah. Yes. Sally and I are meeting for lunch later this week.”

“And you visited your brother again, as well?”

“Yes, it’s been good seeing him,” she said, relieved for the small talk. “I’ve felt guilty about just up and disappearing on him, you know? He’s done so much for me.”

“ _He_ has? Well isn’t that nice?” he said, his tone suddenly biting. He moved slowly down the steps towards her.

She scrambled for justification. “Well, you know, the flat and the, uh...” The closer he got, the more she stammered. “The...car and all.”

“Yes, of course.” Jim nodded, insincerely, and his voice went hypnotic. “Well, you should know, you were missed.”

“Oh yeah?” Polly smiled hesitantly. “Th-that’s sweet.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Jim snapped, his expression quickly shifting, suddenly staring, detached and cold. “While you were out with your brother, Sebastian and I were both working, finalising critical arrangements for next week - work you could’ve assisted with. If you’re going to be a part of us, Polly, part of this plan, you have to understand that the work takes priority. Over all.”

“Oh,” Polly said. “Okay. I mean, yes. Understood.” 

“Good,” he said, flipping his towel over his shoulder. “The water’s warm, Gum Girl,” he said, his eyes dull as they swept her body. “And you look like you could use a swim.”

Polly didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath until after Jim had left the room.

 

  
  
**JIM**

**6.**

He usually enjoyed watching Sebastian clean his weapons - the smell of gun oil, the obscene stroking of the bore, and the fetishistic reverence the man clearly held for his firearms -- but on this day, Jim could hardly enjoy the process, not with Polly out on the patio, talking to her brother. Again. 

“What do you think she’s told him?”

“About us?” Seb asked, adjusting the gun cradle.

“No, about the state of the Greek economy,” sneered Jim. “Of course about us.”

“I’m sure as little as possible, especially now that she’s, you know, officially working with us.” Seb poured solvent into a bowl. “She’s not an idiot, Jim, but I’ll talk to her. Family is family, after all.”

“You say that like either of us has a family.”  

“Well,” Seb said, carefully. “We’ve got each other.” . 

“Yes,” Jim said absently, still staring out the window. “And now we’ve got her.”

  
  
  
**POLLY**

 **7.**  

Seb’s mobile rang in the dark. 

“What?” Seb asked, even before turning on the lamp. After a moment of listening, he sat up, instantly alert. “Do we know who’s responsible?”

Polly rolled over on her side, half awake, not taking in much beyond the fact that Seb had disturbed the covers. 

Sebastian continued his conversation. “No, Eddie, you did well, son. I’ll take it from here.” He reached for a pen and scrawled notes on an envelope. “West Croydon, above the pawnbroker, got it.”

He ended the call and leaned over to Polly. “Babydoll,” he said, quietly. “I gotta go.”

 

  
  
**SEBASTIAN**

**8.**

Twenty minutes later, Seb found himself in a cold water flat above a pawnbroker’s on London Road, staring down at the slowly cooling corpse of one Toby Thompson, a.k.a., Fake Sherlock. 

Seb sighed. His long-sought-after Holmes stand-in had been stabbed as a result of a bar fight Toby’d thought he won and left behind. From what Eddie had told Seb, the bloke hadn’t realized that the fight was still in progress until the killer followed him home, kicked in his door and finished it for real, right in the middle of his kitchen. 

“Alright, Toby,” Sebastian said to the corpse, as he opened his duffle and began the rote process of stripping the flat of anything that connected the deceased to Jim. “How about you tell me where the fuck I’m gonna find another Sherlock Holmes?”

 

 

**JIM**

**9.**

“We won’t find another lookalike, not in the time we have left,” said Jim, feeling decisive and back in control after a few days of quiet. “So, Plan B.”

“We don’t have a Plan B.”

“You might not, but I do,” Jim said. “You’re my Plan B, Sebbie. Well, you and Polly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I didn’t think you would. That’s why I’m the boss,” Jim said, and nodded his head in the direction of the sitting room. “Go get the girl. Family meeting.”  

 

  
  
**POLLY**

 **10.**  

“Who needs a lookalike when you have a photograph?”

A photo of Sherlock Holmes, the real Sherlock Holmes, sat on the table between them,  the centerpiece, apparently, of Jim’s new kidnapping plan. 

“So, Poll and I kidnap the kids instead of Toby,” Seb said, trying to follow the thread. “We show them the picture of Holmes, say he’s the one who ordered their kidnapping, generally scare them shitless about him, and then drop them at the factory with the chocolates. Why does it have to be the both of us, again?”

“Because together, you look like a fine and upstanding married couple, one who could feasibly have a child that attends St. Aldate’s. That’ll get you through the door,” Jim explained, and then eyed Polly with a slight frown. “I mean, admittedly, Poll’s a bit young to have school-age children, but I suppose she could always be your second wife. Trophy wife. Ooh, wicked stepmother! That even works with the theme.”

Polly discreetly cut her eyes to Sebastian before managing a convincing laugh.

“See?” Jim smiled. “Perfectly wicked.”

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**11.**

“Is he punishing us?” Polly asked, wetting her toothbrush under the tap in Sebastian’s bedroom. “I mean, I know you two are fighting--”

“ _Were_ fighting, thanks,” Seb corrected, drying his hands. “We’re okay now.”

“Well, he’s mad at me about Denny.”

“Jim’s fine,” Sebastian assured her, and tossed his towel into the laundry basket. “Look, did he have a rough few days? Yes, but that had nothing to do with us and everything to do with him. He’s...better now.”

“Right, but it’s still our faces that he’s exposing with this plan,” she said, mid-brush.

“Not if we do it right,” Seb explained. “If we do it right, no one will see us but the kids, and if we scare them well enough, they’ll only remember Sherlock.”

“I suppose,” Polly said, doubtfully, and then spit into the sink. “But I want a wig. And you should wear a mustache or a hat or something.”

“Disguises it is, then,” Seb said, and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close. As he did, he eyed her hair. “You know, if you’re getting a wig, I’ve always had a thing for gingers.”

“Really, now?” Polly said, humoring him. “Is that why, in your infinite wisdom, you are currently dating a brunette and a blonde?”

“Dating? I thought you and I were supposed to be married,” Sebastian smiled, and unexpectedly lifted her up in his arms. “See? I’m even carrying you over the threshold.”

Polly giggled, and played along, locking her arms around his neck. “Hush, you, or the children will hear!”

 

  
  
**JIM**

**12.**

“But that wasn’t the end of Sir Boast-a-lot’s problem, no.” Jim said, and then paused for effect. “That wasn’t the final problem. The End.”

“Cut!” Polly said, and hit the stop button. “That was really good. I hate that Seb’s missing this.”

“Someone has to rig the taxi, darling,” Jim said, and stood to retrieve the large storybook from the shelf. “I just keep imagining the look on Sherlock’s face. Did Seb tell you I’m considering driving the taxi myself?”

“That would be--” Polly’s mobile chirped, interrupting them, and she looked down briefly before discreetly flipping the phone over on its face. “Yeah, that would be amazing.”

“Who was that?” 

Polly shrugged. “Nobody.”

“Not nobody,” Jim said, knowingly. “Your brother?”

“Yes. I told him not to call. I’m sorry.”

“What’d he say?”

“You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Polly sighed, turned over the phone, and read the text. “He’s going on a trip. Spur-of-the-moment thing with the new boyfriend, apparently. He’s leaving tonight.”

“Lucky boy,” Jim mused. “How long will he be gone?”

“A week. I haven’t met this new guy yet, but I like him already. I mean, taking Den on holiday, how sweet is that?”

“Sweet as sugar,” Jim agreed, and sat back down in front of the camera. 

  
  
  
**JIM**

**13.**

Later that night, Jim retired to bed early and alone, for once, but not because he was particularly tired.

He reached for the mobile that spent most days lying out of sight in his bedside drawer: Richard’s mobile. Flopping back on the bed, he scrolled through the texts - mostly messages from Kitty regarding the upcoming article about Sherlock and its potential publication date. 

Mostly. 

Jim’s thumb clicked to the only other number in the phone and typed for a moment before hitting send. Satisfied, he dropped the phone back in the drawer and headed for a long soak in the bath. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
> \- Does the Scotland Yard have a canteen? [Indeed it does!](https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2017/mar/29/metropolitan-police-new-headquarters-scotland-yard-architecture-london-review)  
> \- Exploring the topic of Mental Health care in the UK has been interesting. A patient's right to refuse medication is a part of the Mental Health Act of 1983, and explained [here](https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/drugs-and-treatments/medication/your-right-to-refuse-medication/#.XSstNZNKho6).  
> \- Because Sebastian is Jim's “legally authorised surrogate decision maker”, Jim's shrink [can legally talk to him about Jim's health](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2922345).  
> \- [How does doctor-patient confidentiality work in the UK](https://digest.bps.org.uk/2011/02/17/when-a-client-confesses-to-murder/)? Jim can talk about _past_ bad deeds all he wants without repercussions, but he cannot talk about future deeds, or the doctor is permitted to alert police.  
> \- Can penthouses have pools? [YES](https://www.forbes.com/sites/kristintablang/2015/04/26/7-jaw-dropping-homes-in-new-york-city-packing-private-pools/#4784e80896bf)! In fact, I imagine Jim's to look like this one:  
>   
> The closer we get to the kidnapping, the more things ramp up, so hold onto your hats, readers - the next chapter posts in a few weeks!
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> <3  
> vex.


	11. Jim/Polly/Sebastian

**JIM**

**1.**

_Saved to Jim’s computer, five weeks earlier:_

Beijers, J., Bijleveld, C., van de Weijer, S. and Liefbroer, A. (2007). “All in the family?” The Relationship Between Sibling Offending and Offending Risk.” _Journal of Developmental and Life-Course Criminology_ , 3(1), pp.1-14.

Garcia-Arocena, D. (2009). The genetics of violent behavior. [Blog] _The Jackson Laboratory_.

Tiihonen, J., Rautiainen, M., Ollila, H., Repo-Tiihonen, E., Virkkunen, M., Palotie, A., Pietiläinen, O., Kristiansson, K., Joukamaa, M., Lauerma, H., Saarela, J., Tyni, S., Vartiainen, H., Paananen, J., Goldman, D. and Paunio, T. (2004). Genetic background of extreme violent behavior. _Molecular Psychiatry_ , 20(6), pp.786-792.

Sariaslan, A., Larsson, H. and Fazel, S. (2005). Genetic and environmental determinants of violence risk in psychotic disorders: a multivariate quantitative genetic study of 1.8 million Swedish twins and siblings. _Molecular Psychiatry_ , 21(9), pp.1251-1256.

Parshley, L. (2009). _Can Your Genes Make You Kill? | Popular Science_. [online] Popsci.com. Available at: https://www.popsci.com/can-your-genes-make-you-kill/

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**2.**  

“These look yummy,” Polly said.

The box on the table was beautiful - heart-shaped and lined in velvet, holding a cascade of what looked to be perfectly delectable, cellophane-wrapped truffles. 

Sebastian grunted, bent over the counter top with his back to her, throroughly engaged in clearing a stubborn pistol jam. He slammed the heel of his palm into the butt of the gun, with no luck. “Goddamn,” he swore at the stuck ammo. “Come on, you cunt.”

Accustomed to Seb’s ranting, Polly continued. “I didn’t know Jim had a sweet tooth,” she said, and picked up one of the treats, the wrapper crackling in her hands. “Can I have one?”

Finally registering what was happening behind him, Seb dropped the gun before turning around. “No!” he said, his face stern, his gestures firm. “Don’t. Touch.”

“Why not? I mean they’re just -- Oh.” she said, suddenly realising exactly what it was that she held in her hand. She examined it closer, peering through the paper with fascination. “These are _those_ chocolates?”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**3.**

_Four weeks earlier:_

“Can I help you?”

“Espresso, six shots, black as night.”

It was early. So early, in fact, that the coffee shop was empty but for the two of them, customer and barista. 

“Name for the order?”

“Well, gosh, I kind of hoped you’d remember...”

Dennis looked up for the first time during the transaction, and gasped. “Richard? From the bar? Oh my god, that is you!”

Jim-as-Richard-Brook shot him a winning smile. “In the flesh.” 

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**4.**

Polly hadn’t thought much about the candy when Jim had first explained the plan. It was just an end to their means, more of an afterthought than anything else, something creepy to pin on Holmes and tie the whole thing into the fairytale theme.

Then the candy showed up on the kitchen counter and she couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop thinking about the expression on Seb’s face when he told her not to touch it, and about how, in just a few days, she and Seb would soon be giving it to actual children. 

She Googled “mercury poisoning” on her phone. There was a lot about how it could make you literally as mad as a hatter, but not so much about the effects it might have on a child. It all depended, apparently, on what kind of mercury was in it, which she certainly didn’t know. 

Best case scenario, the candy was made with elemental mercury, which was harmless if touched or swallowed. But if that was the case, why would Jim even bother with it?

Worst case scenario, it was made with inorganic mercury and if the children ate enough of it, the chemical could build up in their bloodstream, lead to kidney failure, and eventually, potentially, death.

Killing an adult was one thing. Adults were arseholes and a lot of them deserved to die.

But killing a kid? That was a whole different thing entirely.              

 

 

 

**JIM**

**5.**

_Three weeks earlier:_

Jim-as-Richard tumbled off him, rolling onto his back.

“That was amazing,” Dennis gushed, face flush and heart racing. “Never would’ve expected a children’s performer--”

“I know, I’m sorry,”  Jim said, appropriately sheepish. “Bit of a paradox.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Dennis said, running his hand through Jim’s hair. “I like it. Quite wicked.”

“Wicked. That’s a lovely word,” Jim said, and rolled up onto his side, supporting his head with his hand. “Tell me something about you, then, you wicked man. Something I don’t know.”

“Not much to say, you already know most of my boring life,” Dennis said, with a sigh. “I own a coffeeshop, I live in this rather mediocre flat--”

“--with your sister, wasn’t it?” Jim said, carefully. “I remember you said the night we met.”

“The night you ditched me.”

“Thought we’d gotten past that.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dennis said, giving in easily. “Technically, yes, Poll still lives with me. But the last month or so she’s fucked off to her new bloke’s house. Not that I blame her -- if I found a sugardaddy with a Mayfair penthouse, I’d fuck off too.”

“Sugardaddy?”

“She says he’s not, but he so is,” Dennis said, with a knowing laugh. “At any rate, for now it looks like it’s just me here, all by my lonesome.”

“Not so lonesome anymore.”

“Not right now, no,” Dennis admitted, and kissed him sweetly. 

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**6.**

Seb grimaced at the mirror. He looked like his father. “Take it off.”

The makeup artist grumbled. “You said mustache.”

“I changed my mind. Make it a beard,” Sebastian said, looking at himself in the mirror. It was eerie. “But none of that mountain man shite. Make it respectable.”

“You got it,” the artist replied, and reached for his kit. “One Corporate Beard, coming up -- and I’m just warning you, he’s going to love it.”

“You think so?” Seb looked up. 

“Oh, honey,” he said, with a smirk. “I know so.”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**7.**

_Two weeks earlier:_

“Are you two alike?” Jim-as-Richard asked, as he and Dennis walked through Borough Market.

“Who?” 

“You and your sister,” Jim said, snagging a sample of cheese as they passed a stall. “I mean, my brother was nothing like me.”

“Was?” 

 _Shit._ “Um, yeah. He died, long time ago.”

Dennis stopped. “God. Sorry.”

“Hardly your fault,” Jim said, resuming their walk, shrugging off the sympathy and shifting the conversation back on track.  “Jim was a great deal more...wicked...than I. He could be cruel. Violent, even.”

Dennis started, concerned. “Jesus, Richard. Did he ever hurt you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He loved me,” Jim snapped, his response too quick. He paused, and took a breath. “But your sister. Was she...like that, growing up?”

“No, of course not,” Dennis said, stopping in front of a bakery display. “God, no. Why would you ask me something like that?”

“Because,” Jim started, and then looked away, feigning embarrassment, knowing he had to play this precisely right. He leaned in, looking around him before answering, as if he were telling Dennis a secret. “Because I was hoping that if she wasn’t the wicked one, well, that maybe you were.”

Jim blushed, flushed, and pressed his long lashes against his cheeks, setting the bait. It was so easy, he almost felt guilty. 

Almost.

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**8.**

“Are you in Margate?” Polly asked, skeptically eyeing the long red wig in the mirror as she spoke into her mobile. “Are you officially on holiday?”

Through the phone, Dennis groaned. “I’m here, but I’ve officially been stood up. He texted me last night, after I arrived. Something came up at work - but he did insist I stay and enjoy the week.”

“That’s something,” she said, and pulled the wig off, handing it to the clerk. “At least you’ve got a fun week off, on his dime.”

“I suppose,” he said doubtfully. “Wanna join me? Beg off from work, take a break from the sugardaddy? We could go to Dreamland, ride the rollercoaster like when we were kids - but no vomiting this time, okay?”

_People with mercury poisoning may experience muscle weakness, vomiting and nausea..._

She blinked. “N-no, Den.” she said, distractedly, and moved away from the counter.

“Come on, it would be like skipping school!” 

_...symptoms may vary depending on a person’s age and exposure levels…_

“It’s not possible.”

_...mercury can also affect a child’s early development…_

“Look, I know he’s rich, Poll, but he doesn’t own you.”

_...massive blood and fluid loss, kidney failure, and death._

She ran out of the store, the door jingling on the way out. Once outside, her voice trembled. “Look, I just can’t, Den. I wish I could, but I really, really can’t. So can you get off my goddamned back?”

“Jesus, Polly, are you okay?” Dennis said, his voice suddenly concerned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine, Denny,” she said, trying to pull herself together. “It’s nothing. I’m just...I’ve got a lot going on, is all.”

“You want to talk?”

“About what?”

“About whatever’s crawled up your arse.”

“You’re on holiday! And it’s not like you can do anything to help, anyway, Den.”

On the other end of the line, there was a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of Dennis lighting a cigarette. “How about you try me?”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**9.**

_One week earlier:_

Jim stripped and settled into the far corner of the steam room, deflecting advances with a glare. 

Dennis arrived looking out-of-his-element, but all Jim could see was potential. He crossed the room, eased behind him, and grasped his hand. “You’re here.”

“I am,” Dennis said, exhaling, recognizing the voice behind him. “Never been to one of these.”

“And now you have,” exhaled Jim, feeling far more Jim than Richard in this moment. “So let’s have some fun.”

Jim pressed him up against a column in the sauna, felt eyes on them as they kissed, as both their hands reached for one another, pulling until they both whined, until they were both sweating from the steam, making their bodies quickly as slick as their cocks. “Got you a present,” Jim said, breathless and eager.

“Yeah?” Dennis said. “What?”

“Come find out,” Jim said, excited, and pulled him through the door and down the hall, to a deluxe room. On the counter were a handful of toys and opposite, a rentboy in a blindfolded, bound to a bed. 

Dennis exhaled, long and low. “Richard, you filthy thing.”

“Do you like it?”

“Depends.”

“He’s of age. And clean,” Jim murmured, close to his ear. “The room’s under an assumed name. Nothing can be traced to either one of us. I want you to give in to your basest instincts, Dennis. Your most wicked impulses,” he said, and pressed a stiletto handle into his palm.” Absolutely nothing is off the table.”

“Nothing?” Dennis swallowing hard, eyeing the knife.

“Not a single, damn thing.”

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**10.**

Jim, it turned out, couldn’t keep his hands off the beard. 

He reached up to Sebastian’s now-scruffy cheeks and pulled him close, kissing him passionately. 

“Should’ve known you’d like a bear, Jim,” Polly snarked, as she entered the room in full trophy wife mode: body-skimming cream-colored dress, heels higher than most could manage, all topped with a sleek, copper-colored bob. Sebastian wolf-whistled in appreciation, and Polly positively glowed. 

Jim broke away from Seb with a smile, circling her, admiring her choices. “Wicked stepmother, indeed,” he said, and leaned in, kissing her cheek. “It’s perfect.”

Ten minutes later, they were all on the couch going over the plan in detail for the last time. “The kidnapping goes off in three days,” Jim explained. “After that, within 24 hours, Sherlock Holmes will be dead, and in a few weeks, he’ll be a forgotten chapter in the public’s memory.” He handed a glass of champagne to each of them, and raised his own. “Cheers to us, and cheers to the end of Sherlock Holmes!”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**11.**

_Six days and twenty-one hours earlier:_

In the taxi afterwards, Jim-as-Richard had the driver drop Dennis off at his flat first. The whole way there, he indulged Dennis, listening to his excited rehash of the evening’s highlights, most of which centered on the rentboy’s mouth, Jim’s flexibility and the overall filthiness of the entire encounter. Inside Jim’s pocket, the unused stiletto was now folded and locked shut, pressing harmlessly against his thigh. 

 _Filthy, yes_ , thought Jim. _But violent? Murderous? Gloriously vicious like his dear sister?_ _Sadly, no._  

So much for genetics.

And so much for Dennis Wright.

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**12.**

Polly’s wig and shoes were off, Jim’s tie was loosened, and Sebastian’s new Richard James jacket had been abandoned on the settee before the first bottle of champagne had been finished. 

At Jim’s prompting, Polly went to fetch another bottle. By the time she returned, Jim was on the sofa, looking quite pleased with himself, and Sebastian was knocked out cold in an armchair.  

“Shit, Jim,” she sighed, looking from him to Seb and back again. “What did you do?”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**13.**

_Eight hours earlier:_

Jim received a text on Richard’s phone, accompanied by a selfie of Dennis, pint in hand.

**Margate is lovely, wish you were here! - DW**

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**14.**

“He should have known better,” Jim said, with a smug expression on his face. “Went to change the music and carelessly left his glass on the table.”

Polly put down the champagne bottle, picked up Seb’s glass and sniffed. “Roofie?”

“GHB, actually,” Jim smiled. “Shorter time out, softer come down, spectacular sexual side effects upon waking.”

“Always so thoughtful, you,” Polly said, sarcastically, as she felt for Seb’s pulse. Satisfied with his heart rate, she turned back to Jim. “Why’d you do this?”

“Because,” Jim said, and stood, grabbing the champagne bottle by its neck, and giving her a lingering look. “Sometimes a boy will do just about anything to get a girl alone.”

 

 

**POLLY**

**15.**

She followed Jim out to the patio, which overlooked the City. It was a spectacular, breathtaking view, and on this unseasonably warm night, the moon was full, and it all felt very romantic - or as romantic as anything could feel with one’s drugged sniper-boyfriend sleeping it off in the next room.

“I like the dress.”

“I’m glad.”

“Brandon Maxwell?”

“Should’ve known you’d know.”

Jim refilled their glasses, and they both leaned against the railing, his arm actually brushing against hers. She was nervous to be standing this close to the edge and, simultaneously, to be standing so close to him.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said you wanted to be alone.”

“Yes. But I never said anything about talking.”

Polly bit her lip, Jim was looking at her in a very unnerving way and none of this made any sense at all. He took both their glasses, placed them on a nearby table, and then leaned in. All she could think was how surprised she was by the softness of his lips. 

“I...don’t understand.”

“It’s a kiss, Gum Girl. I know you know what a kiss is.”

“But you’re…”

“I’m what?”

“I mean, I thought you were gay.”

He advanced, his hands pulling her closer, his mouth seeking out that space just below her ear, the one that made her gasp and melt. He pulled back, and shot her a knowing look.

“Now, who ever told you that?”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**16.**

_Two hours, forty-four minutes earlier:_

Jim received another text on Richard’s phone.

**Got a moment? I need a favour... - DW**

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**17.**

Jim broke away with a smirk. 

“Do I look like a man who limits himself, darling?” he asked, flamboyantly lifting his glass to her. “Of course I love men. Sebastian, most often, but others as well, including women.”

“Like that Kitty person?”

“God no,” Jim said, a look of horror on his face. “Give me some credit.” 

Polly couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, so who was your last?”

“Last woman? A city morgue examiner, actually, a few years back,” Jim said, downing the rest of his glass. 

“Kinky,” Polly said. “I’m assuming Sebastian was your last man?”

Jim laughed, and pulled her close with one hand, fingers tightening around her waist. “Assume all you like, dear, but I’m afraid you’ll be incorrect.”

“Oh really?” Polly asked, archly, teasing him. “You _have_ been busy. So who is this mystery man?”

“My most recent?” Jim coyly looked up, as if the correct answer could be found somewhere in the night sky. “Oh, right. It was just this week, actually. A rentboy at a bathhouse, it was quite the scene,” Jim said, almost sentimentally, before adding one last thing:

“I shared him with your brother, Dennis.”

 

 

 

**JIM**

**18.**

_Two hours, thirty-eight minutes earlier:_

Jim read Dennis’ text and dialed the phone. As he waited for the connection to be made, he closed the door to his suite and locked it.

“Hello?” Jim-as-Richard said, upon pick up. “I got your message, Den. How can I help?” 

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**19.**

“My _brother_?”

Suddenly, the patio didn’t seem all that romantic. 

Jim sat on the couch. “Well, I mean, technically, _Richard’s_ the one who’s been fucking him, darling, but what’s the difference, really?” 

“You’ve got to be joking.” Polly reeled, and reached out to the wall for support. “I mean, why? How?”

“It wasn’t hard,” he said, crossing his legs. “He was mine for the price of a cheap sofa and a kind smile.”

_That bloody sofa. Mr. Spur-of-the-Moment-Holiday. Fucking hell..._

In all fairness,” he said. “I only found him when I was looking for you, before, even, the incident with Officer Griffiths. And I only became interested in him after your...proclivities...were revealed.”

“Proclivities.”

“Your skills, Polly. Your delicious murderous tendencies.”

“Christ,” Polly said, and downed the rest of her champagne, hoping it would numb this whole fucking conversation.

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading on sibling genetics lately, specifically the heritability of the Warrior Gene, something I expect you have,” he explained. “You are exceptional, Polly, on a genetic level, you have to know that. Frankly, you’re lucky I haven’t swabbed your champagne flute just to confirm my suspicions.”

Polly narrowed her eyes. “Because I killed someone? Lots of people have killed people.”

“Because you killed someone so passionately. So instinctively. So...effectively. It’s a gift.” Jim said, earnestly. “So, with that in mind, you can understand why I might’ve been curious to find out if your brother was similarly inclined.”

“Why?” she asked, still trying to wrap her mind around this. “So you could collect the whole set?”

“If he were as proper a monster as you, yes.”

“Oh, so now I’m a bloody _monster_?” 

“Said out of love, darling, and with a tremendous amount of awe,” he said, and as much as Polly would’ve liked to have an excuse to vent her anger, his words did seem to be genuine. This was Jim Moriarty, after all, the only person on earth who considered monstrous behaviour to be a divine virtue.

She sat down, feeling a bit shellshocked. After a moment of quiet, she asked, “So was he?” 

“Was he what?”

“Was he a proper monster?”

Jim refilled their glasses once more, killing the bottle, and replied with a sad shake of his head. “Your brother lacks your gift.”

He handed her a glass, and she took it, the weight of it in her hand centering, somehow. “How exactly did you come to this conclusion?”

“A simple experiment,” Jim said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “One he quite enjoyed, I assure you. He was never even aware he was being tested.”

“And when he failed, that’s when you begged off the trip?” Polly asked.

“No, darling. I never intended to go on the trip in the first place,” Jim said. “I just wanted him well out of the way, so we could go about destroying Holmes without him distracting either one of us.” He stood then, and moved toward the balcony. “Of course, that was then, and this is now.”

“Oh?” Polly asked, a slow feeling of dread suddenly forming in the pit of her stomach. “Has something changed?”

“A great deal has changed,” he answered, still looking out over the City, his back to her.  There was a moment before he finally turned back around, but when he did, his expression had gone cold. “You see, Dennis texted Richard earlier, all in a panic,” he said, his voice suddenly sing-song. “His sister, apparently, has gotten mixed up with a crowd of criminals who want to involve her in a kidnapping. Richard’s to check in on her tonight, you know, to make sure she’s okay.” 

Ice water down Polly’s spine, but fuck, how could she have predicted this? 

_Shit, shit, shit, this was bad._

She sat, utterly still, her body refusing to respond to the panic signals flooding her brain.

He took a step towards her. 

“So, are you?” he asked, his voice menacing, his head tilting. “Are you okay, Polly?”

Finally, the signals got through and Polly stood up, scrambling to get to her feet…

_...to get to the door, to get off this patio, to get back into the penthouse…_

“You’ve been very naughty, Poll,” Jim teased, moving ever closer, “but you can fix this, you can.”

_...out the door and into the street, into a cab, get to safety..._

He raised his hand, and she flinched, but he only stroked her cheek. Foolish girl. Because when the blow finally came, it surely wouldn’t be physical.

“Find your brother. Kill him quickly. Fix your mistake.” Jim said, as bored as if he were dictating a grocery list. “And don’t even think about going all monstrous on us, lovely, because we will absolutely see you coming. Save it for Denny. But be back in time for the kidnapping or we’ll be forced to kill you both in a most unpleasant fashion.”

Polly’s eyes were wide, her pulse was pounding, and she was shaking her head _no, no, no,_ _he couldn’t be asking this of her, this couldn’t be happening, how could this happen?_

“Off you pop,” he said, dismissing her with a kiss on her forehead. “And Gum Girl?”

Polly swallowed hard. 

“Have a nice trip.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
> \- All of Jim's genetic citations are legitimate, but for the dates, which were changed to fit into the timeline. You can read them [here](https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s40865-017-0053-x), [here](https://www.jax.org/news-and-insights/jax-blog/2015/december/the-genetics-of-violent-behavior), [here](https://www.nature.com/articles/mp2014130), [here](https://www.researchgate.net/publication/286924267_Genetic_and_environmental_determinants_of_violence_risk_in_psychotic_disorders_a_multivariate_quantitative_genetic_study_of_18_million_Swedish_twins_and_siblings) and [here](https://www.popsci.com/can-your-genes-make-you-kill/)!  
> \- Pistol jams are a problem, particularly when using handmade bullets, which I'm assuming Sebastian does. [Here's how to clear a jam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dHLOBAxyRC8).  
> \- In this chapter, I ended up [learning a lot](https://medlineplus.gov/ency/article/002476.htm) about [Mercury poisoning](https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/320563.php)...  
> \- ...as well as about [Margate](https://www.thecrazytourist.com/15-best-things-to-do-in-margate-kent-england/) and the [Scenic Railway Rollercoaster](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32A7oTYowvA)!  
> \- The style of Seb's beard was taken from [here](https://www.menshairstylestoday.com/beard-styles/), and this is [his linen suit](https://www.richard-james.com/shop/product/seishin-suit-fine-linen?color=navy-28004).  
> \- [Polly's Maxwell midi dress is here](https://www.eonline.com/photos/25780/meghan-markle-s-pregnancy-style/883555) (and it should be noted that she'd a bit clairvoyant, as the style of this dress was actually inspired by Meghan Markle from years later, hee)!  
> \- [Jim's folding stiletto](https://www.knifecountryusa.com/store/category/603/stiletto-folding-pocket-knives.html).  
> \- The bathhouse Jim and Dennis visits is based on [Pleasuredome](https://london.gaycities.com/bathhouses), a current London steam room.  
> \- Everything I know about GHB and its after effects I learned [here](http://www.urban75.com/Drugs/gbh.html). Don't do drugs, y'all, stay in school - and certainly don't dose your boyfriends' drinks!
> 
> So much happening in this chapter! And to my WIP readers, as much as I'd like to say I hate leaving you on a cliffhanger, you know how much I truly love it. Will Polly, or won't she? Stay tuned!
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting, your words truly get me through this!  
> Next chapter posts soon (subscribe to get immediate notification)!  
> <3  
> vex.


	12. Sebastian/Jim/Polly

**SEBASTIAN**

**1.**

It was morning.

Sebastian woke up with a start, disoriented and aching, his body bent uncomfortably in the sitting room chair. He was still in his clothes, and he was cold, despite the blanket that had been draped on top of him. He couldn’t remember exactly how he’d gotten here. 

He pushed the blanket out of the way and sat up, placing his feet on the floor. On the table before him was an empty bottle of champagne on its side, and an empty glass. 

 _Funny_ , he thought. I don’t _feel_ hungover.

He contemplated that for a good long moment before figuring it out, and when he finally did, his reaction was explosive.

“James Darragh Moriarty!” he bellowed, chasing up the stairs. “You are a dead man!”

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**2.**

“You were right, Sebbie,” Jim said, stretched out on the bed, sated and smug. “I _am_ a dead man. You’ve positively killed me.”

Sebastian knew that the proper response to being involuntarily drugged by one’s partner was _not_ to give them a glorious morning of mindblowing sex, but such was the way when your partner was one Jim Moriarty. And while Seb knew he could easily blame the GHB for his reaction, he knew he had no one and nothing to blame but himself.

Because he fucking loved the bastard. It was ridiculous, but god knew he did. 

“Do it again, though, and I really will kill you, you arsehole,” Sebastian mumbled, and reached for his pack of Rothmans. 

“Promises, promises,” crooned Jim, who shifted position, laying his head on Seb’s chest, and together, they both watched the smoke from Seb’s cigarette rise and drift.

“Pity Polly wasn’t here to watch, I think she would’ve liked that part where you did that thing,” Sebastian remarked, sleepily. “Where is she, anyway?”

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**3.**

“You fucking WHAT?”

Thirty seconds later and Seb was out of bed, rifling through his trousers, looking for his phone as Jim continued to talk.

“She told him, Sebastian, what else was I to do?” Jim sat up, radiating righteousness. “I told you we needed to be careful about him.”

Sebastian finally found the phone, and pressed a button, glaring at Jim as he did. “‘Careful’? You put out a bloody hit out on him. With his sister!” Sebastian put the phone to his ear, and waited, then grimaced. “Bloody voicemail,” he said to Jim, and then turned away, speaking into the phone. “Poll, call me back, okay? I just found out what happened. DON’T DO ANYTHING, I will fix this. Just stay away from your brother and come home.”

He flicked the phone off and threw it on the bed, glaring at Jim. “Two days before we’re set to go off, you pull this shit?”

“Excuse you, Sebastian,” Jim said, standing up and reaching for his robe, “‘This shit’ is me keeping my interests and my business safe. You brought a stray dog into this house--”

“You TOLD me to bring her here! You wanted your ‘monster’--”

“Yes, and if she’s half the monster I think she is, she will do exactly as I say,” Jim said, wrapping the robe around him and tying it loosely. “It’s more fun being an only child, anyway,” he said, with a shrug, and then expression changed, going from serious to suddenly playful. “God, do you think she’ll use a tray?”

 

 

  
**JIM**

**4.**

“I mean, it’s not _my_ fault Dennis has to die,” It was thirty minutes later, and Jim was still in his robe,  not about to let a little fratricide get in the way of breakfast. He was draped on the chaise, drinking tea, dipping toast into a soft boiled egg. “If dear Polly had just kept her mouth shut, none of us would be in this situation.”

“Yeah, you look devastated,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes. He, on the other hand, was fully dressed, his phone to his ear once more, this time on hold with the hotel in Margate. 

Jim hated when Sebastian got like this, all white knight and holier than thou. Jim knew killing Dennis was the only way -- and yes, fine, perhaps it would have been better if he’d gone to Sebastian with it first, simpler if he’d assigned the task, even, to Seb himself, but there was something beautiful and theatrical about Polly cleaning up her own mess. It was also a good test of how far his little monster would go, because really, once you’d killed family, nothing and no one was off limits anymore. Jim knew that better than anyone.

“Yes, hi, I’m holding for Richard Brook?”

Jim chewed slowly, listening. 

“I see. And what time was this?”

Jim added a cube of sugar to his tea, stirred it until it dissolved. 

“Got it, yeah...no worries, just wanted to see if he’d left yet…”

Jim lifted the cup and blew on it, cooling it.

“Yeah...yes, thank you...ta.”

Sebastian hung up, and sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing Jim. “He checked out early this morning, using the electronic check-out on the TV in the room.”

“Or _someone_ did,” Jim said, meaningfully, and sipped his tea. “Anyone see him leave?”

Sebastian shook his head.

“Good girl,” Jim murmured to himself. “So that’s that.”

“You think?”

“If he’s checked out, either she’s gotten to him, or he’s in the wind,”  he said. “Either way, there’s no need for you to go chasing off across the country -- at least not yet. What’s done is likely done, and you, I and the plan are all safer for it.”

Sebastian sat on the bed, scrubbed his face with his hands for a moment, and sighed. “You should’ve told me,” he said, quietly. 

Jim put down his tea, the cup sounding softly against the saucer, and leaned forward. “Would you really have listened to me if I had?”

“I don’t know.”

“And that’s why I didn’t tell you.” Jim said pointedly, and patted the cushion beside him. “Come here.”

Sebastian looked up. He dutifully lifted himself up off the bed and collapsed on the lounge beside Jim, folding into him. 

For the first time in more than a dozen hours, Jim felt at peace.

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**5.**

“Won’t the people who work here notice a big bloody red “I.O.U.” on their windows tomorrow morning?” Eddie asked, scratching his head, looking at the desks around them. 

“This office is currently on a retreat,” Seb explained, standing over the box of spray paint, loudly shaking a can. “Won’t be back until next week. And even then, they’ll just chalk it up to vandals.”

He threw the can to Eddie, who caught it, and uncapped it. “You said to make it big, right?”

“Yeah, needs to be visible from across the way.” Seb nodded, and pointed at the windows. “‘I” there, ‘O’ there, ‘U’ over there.” He moved to the toolbox and picked up a screwdriver. Across the street, Scotland Yard was buzzing, and Seb couldn’t help but wonder if the Kent Police in Margate might be buzzing right now, too. 

  
  
  


**JIM**

**6.**

Stuart, the tailor, narrowed his eyes. “It’s coming along, but I think there are two areas that need a slight readjustment. Shouldn’t take but a moment. Would you be so kind as to lift your arms?”

Standing on the raised dias in the master tailor’s shop, Jim did as requested, and watched  himself in the tri-fold mirror. Appropriate attire for Sherlock’s last look at him - and Jim did so want to leave a lasting impression. 

Stuart carefully plucked at the fabric, pinning it just so, and wisely managed to keep his hands to himself while he did it. When he was done, he removed Jim’s jacket and sent him to the back to change. As Jim moved to the door, his eye was caught by a flash of fabric from one of the suits hanging on a nearby clothing rack. Curious, Jim stopped, slid the other garments out of the way, and unzipped the protective suit bag to take a closer look. “This is gorgeous.”

“Which one?” Stuart asked, eyes down as he carefully opened a seam on Jim’s jacket. 

“The grey Glen check?” Jim said, admiring the feel. “And a pink lining as well, quite flash. Who did this?”

Stuart looked up. “Oh, yes. Paul Smith. Nice, isn’t it? Lining color is inspired - bit of a departure for this client, I’ll admit. Mr. Holmes is usually quite conservative in his choices.”

Jim froze. “Mr. _Holmes_?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Elder or younger?”

Stuart paused. “Not sure, honestly. I’ve only had the pleasure to work with one Holmes, and I will say, he’s given me quite a lot of business over the years,” he said, pulling apart a seam. He peered over his glasses at Jim, his tone confidential. “I hope you won’t find me indiscreet, but there’s been a _lot_ of taking in of his trousers.”

 _Mycroft._ Jim’s skin crawled at even just the thought of his name, and he pulled at his neck repeatedly, as if that could somehow keep his thoughts from escalating. 

(It couldn’t.) 

Jim closed his eyes for a long moment and smiled before carefully pressing the suit back into the bag. He stroked the outside with his hand and calmly turned. “Beautiful work, Stuart. Really. Just beautiful.”

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**7.**

“This switch will control all the lights facing this side of the building, from the ground floor on up,” Seb said, removing the lightswitch plate. “But, listen, Ed - once you turn the light on, stay out of sight. The target is clever and if he sees you, he’ll sort out your life story in a heartbeat, just from the cut of your hair and the brand of your trainers, okay?”

“Okay, okay, got it, Boss. I’ll stay out of sight,” he said, and went about finishing the rest of the “O”. Eddie - technically Eduard -  was a likable emigre Seb had met on a job years ago. He’d moved here with his family in 1995, just after the split of Czechoslovakia. He was a good man, all things considered, and since then, he’d proven himself useful to Seb in a dozen different ways. He’d also proven himself to be utterly immune to Jim’s charms, which was helpful just on its own.  

“So if I’m here, where are you going to be on Friday?” Eddie asked, wiping the tip of the can’s spray mechanism with a piece of newspaper. 

“That’s confidential.” 

“Is it dangerous?” 

“Always.” Seb smiled.

Eddie grinned back and hopped off the chair he’d been standing on, nudging it towards the next bank of windows. “Is he going, too?”

“Yeah, he’s centrally involved in this one.”

Eddie shook his head, and traded out the spent can for a new one. “Don’t know how you do it, Seb.” 

“Part of the job, you know that.” Seb said, stripping a wire. “Risk is built-in.”

“I’m not talking about you accepting your own risk,” he said, stepping up onto the chair. “I’m talking about you accepting his.” 

 

 

 

**JIM**

**8.**

Later that morning, after the final alterations were complete and his finished suit was safely tucked away into a garment bag, Jim choked the life out of Stuart with his bare hands.  

 _Who’s handsy now?_ Jim thought, and giggled as the man slumped to the floor of his workroom. A waste, really, but he should have cultivated a more refined clientele. 

As he left the shop, Jim made a mental note to attend Stuart’s funeral, if only for the fashion. 

No doubt the mourning attire of the attendees would be on _point_.

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**9.**

It was just past noon, and he’d still received no word from Polly. Sebastian distracted himself by focusing on the remaining few tasks that needed his attention prior to tomorrow’s kidnapping. 

The hidden camera at 221B Baker Street had been a thorn in Sebastian’s side from the very beginning, the bloody thing having gone offline three times since its original installation - intermittent breaks in the wifi, no doubt, but each time, Seb had been forced to break into the flat, reset the device and pair it once more with his phone. Maddening, honestly, but what needs must. And luckily, they had a herd of assassins surveilling the place 24/7, all of whom were more than happy to let him know when the coast was clear.

Sebastian picked his way through the detritus of the flat. Sheet music on the floor, chemicals on the kitchen table -- and long ago he’d learned never, under any circumstance, to look inside Holmes’ fridge. Standing on a chair in the sitting room, he located the device, removed it from its hiding place, and restarted it. While it booted up, Sebastian waited, and sat down in the leather chair. 

This chair, likely his.

A chair opposite, likely the Doctor’s.

Or maybe it was the other way around?

Chairs facing the fire, the telly. Nights alone. A pair. A couple? Of course there were rumors, speculative paps, “confirmed bachelor John Watson,” but who really knew? 

Sebastian did, for one. Sebastian and Jim and everyone else who had been at the pool that night knew it. Obvious, even if Holmes and Watson hadn’t realised it yet themselves. Watson jumping Jim, brave little soldier, and Sebastian’s finger had been milimetres away from pulling the trigger before he’d suddenly realised the better tactic, and shifted his aim back to Sherlock. The good doctor stepped back in a heartbeat.

_“Bachelor” Watson confirmed._

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**10.**

While he was at Baker Street, Seb received a text:

 

**CLEANUP ON AISLE 7**

**STUART HAYDON, NO. 5 SAVILE ROW**

**WE’RE GOING TO NEED A NEW TAILOR.**

 

“Fucking hell,” Sebastian groaned, and pressed Eddie’s number on the speed dial. “It’s me,” he said. “Modest shout, I’ll send you the address...yeah...take Lloyd to help...sure. If it’s messy, call me -- otherwise make it look like a suicide or an accident, if you can. Use your judgment. There’s a good lad.”

He hung up the phone and sat back in the chair. From the scene at the bookstore to the hit on Dennis, and now to the presumably impulsive murder of their _tailor_ , of all people - Jim was definitely escalating, and Seb was definitely worried.

He sent a text back to Jim:

**Cleanup in progress. Want to tell me what happened?**

There would be no reply.

  
  


 

**JIM**

**11.**

Everyone knows that the only difference between a salesman working in high-end car sales and one selling the cheapest beater-to-be was the quality of their suits -- and less than an hour after leaving the tailor shop, Jim took a moment to appreciate the fact that George was living up to his stereotype. George was a 50-ish, portly-ish man, dressed to the nines in Harris Tweed -- and while he looked the part, he’d sadly chosen the cheesiest possible pitch. Not the best option when what you’re selling is literally the single-most expensive automobile in England. 

“The Aston Martin Vanquish S Volante benefits from an aspirated 5.9 litre engine,” George said, and then leaned in, eyebrows lifting, his voice lowering, speaking luridly, “and that sound, that growl of the engine, well. It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard before.”

“My goodness,” Jim said, wide-eyed, egging the salesman on, just for fun. “You make it sound like it’s some sort of...predator.”

“Funny you should say that,” the salesman said, brightening. “I’ve actually read a review that described this car as ‘a wolf in an English gentleman’s suit’, and I found that to be quite a compelling image.”

“Why, George,” Jim asked, reaching out to adjust the salesman’s nametag. “Are you implying that in this car, I could be the Big Bad Wolf?” Jim said, letting loose his best wolfish smile. 

George shot him a conspiratorial grin. “I think we all have that potential, deep down, Mr. Wild. Don’t you?” He asked, and opened the door of the car for him. “But let’s find out. Are you ready for your test drive?”

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**12.**

The camera purred beneath his fingers, finally coming back to life. Sebastian pressed the pairing button, and flicked his phone with his thumb, turning to the bluetooth menu and sliding the switch. Opening the app, the camera came back to life. He adjusted the camera’s settings using his phone, and then stood to return it to its hiding place. 

Satisfied that the camera was well-hidden, Seb took a moment to look around the flat. He’d never been comfortable with home invasion, with seeing other people’s things. Seeing all the evidence of their humanity, it could sometimes be too much. He was, after all, a sniper, and snipers really were more effective from a distance. But on this day, Sebastian lingered, soaking in the domesticity. He eyed the two dirty wine glasses on the kitchen counter, the two toothbrushes, side by side in the loo. Two bedrooms, but clearly, two men together. It was impossible not to see the parallels: John was to Sherlock what Seb was to Jim, similar men, similar _couples_ , placed on opposite ends of the axis by fate. 

Then again, Sebastian didn’t personally know Sherlock Holmes. The closest he’d come to meeting him was seeing him in the crosshairs of his scope, but he _had_ met John Watson once in London, quite by mistake, and long before the events at the pool.

Seb had been near Baker Street, but on an entirely different mission. Stopped in at a newsstand for a packet of cigarettes, and a voice behind him had hesitantly asked “Colonel Moran?”

No one had called him Colonel in quite a long time.

He’d turned, and was surprised to see his boss’s arch-enemy’s flatmate. In the span of a single moment, he considered why Watson would talk to him, wondered if he knew of his connection to Jim, and observed him for weaponry, visible or hidden. But he appeared to be clean, and his face seemed friendly.

“Who’s asking?” Moran challenged, aiming for equally amiable. 

“Captain John Watson,” John said, giving a small salute. “Not sure if you remember me -- I saw you speak in Helmand, three years ago, I think? You were inspiring.”

The look on John’s face was clearly more fanboy than enemy -- and his words indicated that, at least at the time, he wasn’t privy to the fact of Seb’s disgraced state, nor to the gossip surrounding said state - and Sebastian certainly wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten him.

Ten minutes and a free packet of cigarettes later, they parted ways with a handshake. The next time they’d see one another was when Seb was strapping explosives to his chest.

Now _that_ was inspiration.

Seb might never have known Sherlock Holmes, but he knew John Watson. He knew how similar they were, Seb and John, military men finding themselves in relatively similar life circumstances, and sharing a similar taste for exceptionally terrible, yet exceptionally brilliant men. 

Sebastian also knew that he and John Watson shared something else: the very real, very raw potential for complete and utter devastation. John would be devastated by the death of his detective just as much as Seb would be devastated by the loss -- any kind of loss -- of Jim. The only difference between them was the fact that Sebastian knew about the danger that lay immediately ahead, while John, at the moment, did not.

Before he left the flat, Sebastian rolled up his sleeves, moved into the kitchen and washed those two wine glasses, rinsing and drying them carefully before leaving them on the counter, ready to use. If anyone had asked him then why he did it, he might not have been able to put it into words, but days later, he most definitely would.

He did it because even Holmes and Watson deserved one last good night together before all hell broke loose.  

  
  
  


**JIM**

**13.**

Jim slid into the driver’s seat, the leather enveloping him. The convertible top was already down, and the day was splendid, despite the fact that there was still no word from Margate. “This is the key, then?” Jim asked, slipping on his sunglasses with one hand and waggling the chunky glass widget with the other.

“Yes. Even the car key has been redesigned for the discerning Aston Martin driver - and with a glass key, there are no more torn up suit pockets.” George said, moving closer to the car, and pointing at the slot. “You just slip it right in there.” 

Jim eyed the slot, and looked up at George. “Slip it in? Right there?” he asked coyly. 

George nodded, and leant into the car, tapping his finger on the precise spot. As he did, Jim quickly slipped a stiletto deep into the salesman’s side. He shoved him down and away from the car to the ground. 

“Guess you were right,” Jim said to George’s soon-to-be-corpse, as he inserted the key. “Guess I really am a wolf,” he said, and roared out of the parking lot, letting that engine growl. 

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**14.**

On his way back from Baker Street, Seb received another text:

 

**CLEANUP ON AISLE 10**

**PRESTIGE ASTON MARTIN, TWICKENHAM**

**WHEREIN GEORGE ENCOUNTERED A WOLF**

 

“Jesus Christ, Jim, what have you done now?” Seb uttered, panic rising. Exasperated, he turned the car around. “And who the _fuck_ is George?” 

90 seconds later, another text chimed.

 

**(RETRIEVE STILETTO. IT’S MY FAVOURITE.)**

 

It took all of Sebastian’s willpower not to throw the mobile out the goddamned window.

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**15.**

“Well, we needed a car, didn’t we?” 

“Yes,” Seb said, loudly, perhaps too loudly for a conversation held in an underground car park. Granted, it was the private car park for their building, so not terribly populated, usually, but they still needed to keep it down. Sebastian lowered his volume. “Yes, but if you’d allowed me to go through the usual channels--”

Jim interrupted him, gesturing grandly. “Fuck the usual channels. We need a car that looks like it belongs at St. Aldate’s.”

“You show me one parent at St. Aldates who drives a bloody £250,000 car, Jim. They’re rich, but they’re not bloody Saudi Arabian royalty. This car, outside the school, will draw attention.” Sebastian hissed, so angry he could barely breathe. “You understand we had to torch the entire dealership, right? Because you were so fucking sloppy? That dealership, and by now the block surrounding it, are all on fire, as we speak, because you fucked up.” He gestured, punctuating those last three words. “This is the last fucking straw, Jim. I don’t know what to do with you anymore. The cost of the cars at the dealership alone will send the insurers into a bloody panic. They will _pore_ over the crime scene, do you understand? We had no option but to burn, and hope to god your George didn’t enter a fucking thing about you into their computer system.”

“I’m not stupid, Sebastian. I did use an alias,” countered Jim, hopping up onto the bonnet of the car.

“Oh, happy day!” Seb sniped, raising his arms in mock celebration. “Well then, we only need worry about arson charges, and the £250,000 of evidence you’re currently sitting your arse on!” 

Jim smirked. “Admit it, you’re dying to drive it.”

“Don’t change the subject. Besides, it’s not for me, is it?”

Jim paused, his smirk falling. He looked away.

“Jesus, Jim,” Sebastian said, bitterly, shaking his head. “Of course it isn’t.”

Just then, a voice rang out from the corner of the car park. “Does that mean it’s for me, then?” 

Both men turned in the direction of the voice, and saw a familiar figure emerge from the darkness. 

Polly had returned. 

  
  


 

**SEBASTIAN**

**16.**

“It’s done,” she said, simply, and Jim and Sebastian quickly ushered her up the elevator to the penthouse, into the sitting room, onto the couch.

There was blood on her jeans. Not a lot, but enough. Her eyes were wild, and there was a cut on her cheek. She wore a hoodie, and she kept it pulled it tightly around her. Sebastian sat closely beside her, protective, while Jim poured whiskey, passing around the glasses. 

“I didn’t know,” Seb said, quickly. “I left a message the moment I found out. I tried to stop you. I swear, Poll, I didn’t know.”

“And you call me a drama queen,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “This is hardly the time for apologies -- it’s the time for congratulations! Our pretty Polly did us a great service last night -- oh - or was it today?”

“You made her do a horrible thing, Jim, don’t make her live through it again.”

“That’s the problem, Sebbie dear, you see this as a horrible thing,” Jim said, crossing his legs. “Whereas I see it as a beautiful act of loyalty, one deserving of praise. It’s a triumphant tale of redemption.”

“Or maybe you just see it that way because now you’re not the only member of this house in the ‘killed my brother’ club,” spat Sebastian. 

“That’s true, darling,” Jim said - calmly, pointedly. “And now you’re the only one who _isn’t_.”

Sebastian’s mouth snapped shut, and there was silence as both men glared at one another.

“Last night, late.” Polly said, breaking the tension. “It happened last night. Just before sunrise.”

Seb and Jim both turned to her. Sebastian leaned in and took her hand in his, speaking quietly. “I wish this hadn’t happened, Poll. And I’m sorry it did,” he said. “But listen: three questions and we never have to talk about this again, alright?”

“I’m fine.”

‘You’re not fine."

“Maybe she is? Who knows?”

Seb sneered. “Shut it, _Jimbo_ ,” he said, and then turned back to Polly, tenderly. “Just three questions, sweetheart, alright? Just so that we can make sure we’re all still safe?”

She stared at Sebastian for one long moment, and then abruptly pulled her hand back. 

“For fuck’s sake, don’t baby me, Sebastian,” Polly snapped, her response quick and cold enough to give Seb the chills, and to make Jim smile. “What do you want to know?”

  
  


 

**JIM**

**17.**

“On the pier, at the seaside, across from the amusement park.” 

“Shot him in the head. You were right, Seb, bullets are much neater.”

“I let him go. Pushed him over the edge. Burial at sea.”

Polly answered Sebastian’s nursemaid questions -- where, how, and what happened to the body -- with admirable aplomb, and Jim couldn’t have been more proud. His baby was all grown up. Killing Dennis had been her final exam. 

“Okay, I’ll send out feelers to see if anyone’s found --” Sebastian’s eyes flickered up to Polly’s, the poor sod trying to be sensitive. “Ah, _anything_ at the seaside. I’ll swing by your flat later to remove any evidence that might lead back to Jim. Did you clean out the hotel well?” 

She nodded, and Jim moved to the couch beside her, ignoring Sebastian’s endless prattling on, humming “Nicely done, Gum Girl.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, with a bluntness that was, frankly, refreshing. 

“Oh?” Jim asked,  “And here I thought you liked being my girl.”

Polly sat up, and matter-of-factly pulled down the hood of her coat. Her long blonde hair was no more, and had been chopped short into a messy, almost masculine, cut.

“Whoa,” Sebastian huffed out a surprised breath. “When did you--”

“Polly,” started Jim, but she cut him off before he could finish.

“I mean it,” she said. “I’m not Gum Girl. Not anymore.”

Jim slowly considered her words. She wasn’t wrong. The trip to Margate had obviously flipped some sort of switch inside her and wasn’t that _thrilling_?

“Yes, good. Very good. You’re right, ” he said carefully, almost tenderly. “You’re not that girl anymore.”

“I’m not even a girl, really,” she shrugged, and he was suddenly struck by how deeply the rhythm of his own speech had infiltrated her own. “Not really.”

It was magical, a fairytale, a princess transformed, and Jim was spellbound. “If you’re not a girl, Polly,” he asked, riveted, “Then what are you?”

Later, he realized that he shouldn’t have had to ask.

“A monster,” Polly said, with a sigh, easing back onto the couch. She lay her head onto Jim’s shoulder, the move startling him. “Your beautiful monster.”

  
  
  


**JIM**

**18.**

She hovered over him. 

Jim on his back, on the bed, breathing hard, his detached amusement gone after his first orgasm, after Sebastian joined in, and definitely after Polly had discovered his favourite stiletto.

She kissed him sweetly, and then non-so-sweetly, her teeth finding Jim’s lower lip so pliable, so tender, that her incisors just couldn’t help but tug on it until both their mouths were bloody. She shoved him then, back far enough so that his head fell off the edge of the bed, and then it all went lurid. The sight of Sebastian’s cock, covered in Jim’s own blood, put there by his own mouth, was enough to make Jim whine and shift. He ached beneath her, even as Sebastian tested the furthest reaches of his throat. 

_“That all you got, Polly dear?”_

That’s what Jim had asked when they first got to the master suite, a taunt, a challenge. The old Polly would’ve been reduced to frustration by those words, but the new Polly was having none of it.

_“Don’t tempt me.”_

That’s what Polly had said, before gripping the front of his trousers, before stripping off her own clothes, and before bending him down to her cunt, where Jim demonstrated just how sexually versatile he really was. 

And Sebastian? Well, he was on his knees before she even asked.

It was a new day, all around, and as they all fell off to sleep, Jim had to admit: he was nothing if not impressed. 

  
  
  


**POLLY**

**19.**

Polly woke up in the middle of the night, untangling herself from both the bedsheets and the boys, and got out of bed. She reached for her phone and quietly made her way through the dark house, down the stairs and out onto the patio. 

Outside, it was cold and getting colder. She pressed a button on her phone, and lifted it to her ear, shivering as it rang. 

“It’s me,” she said, quickly, her voice low. “They’ve fallen for it, Den, all of it -- lock, stock and barrel.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Information about "the morning after" taking GHB was rather thin on the ground, but I did find [this article](https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/nov/24/club-drug-ghb-melts-plastic-kill), which gave me the basis for Sebastian's morning after.
> 
> \- I wanted Jim to have a very British breakfast, but I couldn't imagine him eating something as common as a typical fry-up. Reading [this article](https://metro.co.uk/2017/08/25/10-things-only-brits-have-for-breakfast-6865990/) reminded me that of course Jim would demand something as finicky as a soft-boiled egg!
> 
> \- I'll admit, I'm a little bit in love with Eduard -- but I didn't have a face to go with the character until I began researching spray paint for the IOU scene in this chapter -- and then I absolutely, 100%, found him: friends, [meet Doke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7IvMz8Mu2I)!
> 
> \- The [Aston Martin Vanquish S Volante](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YH9G_hrKbQ) is, in fact, the most expensive car in the UK with [a price tag of £250,000](https://www.kbb.com/aston-martin/vanquish-s/2018/volante/). (And yes, the glass key widget is a real thing, too - go to 4:38 on the first link here to see it in action!)
> 
> \- The "Wolf in an English Gentlemen's Suit" quote wasn't just fanciful BS from George -- it was from [a real review](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g5pDMtT5SaQ)!
> 
> \- There IS no pier at [Dreamland](https://www.dreamland.co.uk/visit), the Margate amusement park -- but I needed one for the story, so I made it up. Sorry, Margate! :-)
> 
>  
> 
> Tough chapter, but things will only get rougher in the chapters that remain.
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading, friends, and I'll see you in a few weeks with the next chapter!  
> <3  
> vex.


	13. Polly/Sebastian/Jim

**POLLY**

**1.**

_The day before:_

“James Moriarty?” Dennis sat down, utterly gobsmacked. “How the hell do you not tell me that Jimbo-bloody-Moriarty was your sugardaddy?”

Polly fired back. “How the hell do you not tell me Jimbo-bloody-Moriarty was your new boyfriend?” 

“He told me his name was Richard!” Dennis hissed.

“And you believed him?”

“Sorry, sis - not exactly in the habit of checking boyfriends for aliases, am I?”

She’d texted him from the train, told him to check out of the hotel and meet her in front of the Scenic Railway Roller Coaster at Dreamland, the site of of her 8-year-old self’s greatest humiliation -- and to be honest, she felt just as nauseous on this day as she’d felt back then. They sat at the base of the ride, at a metal picnic table, with two pints of lager in front of them. She’d chosen this as their meeting place because the midway was noisy, full of bright lights and people, an ideal place for hiding in plain sight.

“There’s no point in arguing about it now, I mean, I’m fucking dead.” Dennis said, raking a shaky hand through his hair. “That’s what you said, right? I’m dead?”

Polly reached out, reassuringly, grasping his hand tightly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”  

  


 

**POLLY**

**2.**

_The day before (an hour later):_

“One standard single to London on the 12:12,” Polly said to the clerk at the Margate train station. 

“Just the one, Miss?” the clerk asked, looking over at Dennis, who stood beside her.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, distractedly, holding up her orange stub. “I’ve got a return.”

  
  


**POLLY**

**3.**

_The day before (42 minutes later):_

“Can you have him arrested?” Dennis asked, his tone hushed despite the empty carriage. “You’re police after all, and you know all about his plan.”

“I can’t,” Polly said, her mouth tight. “He has...information about me that he will absolutely give to police if I were to turn them in. Evidence, Den. I could go to prison.”

“Christ,” Dennis frowned, shifting in his chair. “What did you do, Polly?”

“Nothing that wasn’t warranted,” she said, emphatically. “I swear. I may have gotten mixed up with a bad lot, but I’m still me.”

“So if we can’t call the police, what do we do?”

“For now, the only thing we can do is lie,”  Polly said. “We have to make them believe you’re dead. If they believe that, they’ll still think I’m firmly on their side, and I can make moves without them suspecting anything.”

“What kind of moves?”

Polly let out a heavy sigh. “Still working that out.”  

“I swear to god, Polly, I should never have called Richard.”

“I’m the one who brought Jim to our door, I’m to blame.” she said. “But I swear to you, we’re going to get out of this alive, the both of us.”

  


 

**POLLY**

**4.**

_The day before (37 minutes later)_

Polly retrieved a key and motioned Dennis into the small, unassuming flat. “You’ll be safe here. I’ll bring you clothes, and some of your stuff from the flat when I can.”

“Whose house is this?”

“A friend’s. Ordering in should be okay, just don’t go outside yet.”

“And where will you be?”

“Back at the penthouse,” she said. “Jim and Seb have to believe I did as I was told.”

“You better look the part, then,” Dennis said, eyes squinting as he assessed her appearance. “How am I supposed to have died, again?”

“They didn’t specify, but I figured a gunshot wound to the head.”

Dennis snorted. “For real? You sucked at Area 51 when we were kids. And where would you have even gotten a gun?”

“There’s a, ah...sniper...who lives in the penthouse, too,” she said, fully aware of how what a ridiculous statement it was. She lifted the flap on her backpack, and tilted the bag Dennis’ way..

He peered inside, and saw a 9mm pistol. “Christ. Is it loaded?”

“Not yet,” she said. “Gonna take a drive out into the country later to fire off a few shots -- Seb will definitely notice if it hasn’t been fired.”

“Who the hell is Seb? And since when do you know how to shoot a gun?”

“He’s the sniper. It’s complicated,” Polly said. “As for shooting, I just know, alright?”

“Okay, forget I asked,” he said, clearing his throat, and cautiously lifting the gun, to place it on the counter.  “So let’s think about this carefully. How did it all happen?

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**5.**

_The day before: (an hour later)_

Polly stared into the bathroom mirror, eyeing the cut on her cheek. She’d goaded Dennis into hitting her, because it had been a good addition to the look - and it was only fair, after he’d sliced his hand open for the sole purpose of spattering his blood on her clothes. Little sacrifices. Lack of sleep had naturally added some dark rings under her eyes. Her makeup had long since worn off, her clothes were rumpled from travel. She certainly looked like she’d had a rough night, but it still wasn’t enough. 

_What would actually killing Denny have done to me?_

_Would I even be the same person?_

_Would I even be a person at all?_

A pair of scissors sat by the sink, and she picked them up. The first, impulsive chop at her long locks felt right, felt like penance, felt like a sacrifice, just like the slash on Denny’s left hand, like the cut on her cheek, but longer lasting. More swipes with the scissors and her head got lighter, until her hair filled the sink and her image in the mirror no longer looked so familiar. 

She ran her hand over what was left of her hair, and managed a smile, for the first time in hours. 

_This was going to work._

  


 

**JIM**

**6.**

The morning after Polly returned from Margate, Jim let himself into the shower. The fact that Seb was already inside was kind of the point.

Sebastian didn’t flinch at the sudden arrival, instead embracing him, murmuring, “Thought you’d be knackered today.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Jim said, pressing up against him, warm water rushing between them, “but that’s not why I’m here. We need to talk.”

“About?”

“About our little monster,” he said. “I want to make sure she didn’t fuck it up. Let’s put some eyes on the Kent police, make sure that when Dennis’ body is found, it won’t connect back to us.”

“ _If_ it’s found. She did dump him into the North Sea. For all we know, he may already be peacefully digesting in some shark’s belly. But I’ll put out the word before I meet with the snipers.” Sebastian hesitated a moment. “And here I thought you wanted to talk about last night.”

“Poor Sebbie darling,” Jim teased, brushing Seb’s hair back behind his ears. “Does my ability to get hard -- on rare occasion -- for members of the opposite sex still upset you, dearest?“

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Liar,” Jim said, smirking, “But I’ll humor you. What _did_ you mean, then?”

“I meant about Polly. All that monster stuff. The state of her. Killing Dennis clearly traumatized her. Are we sure that she can handle taking part in the plan? We can’t have her falling to pieces in the middle of the gig.” Sebastian leaned back, bracing himself against the shower wall. “I mean, I can totally handle the kidnapping on my own. Single dads do happen.”

Jim opened the shampoo, shaking his head. “Two kids, two kidnappers. It’s better with a mother, even a stepmother,” he said, lathering up his hair. “And even if she freaks out, well, everyone’s parents are batshit crazy, anyway. You and I both know that.”

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**7.**

Sebastian was cleaning a new rifle in preparation for the big event. For this job, he’d chosen the Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Covert rifle, which had both an integrated sound suppressor and a folding stock. That folding stock meant the barrel could be detached, and it could be carried in a small, unobtrusive suitcase, so when the job was done, he could get on the bloody tube with it, if he wanted. It wasn’t his favourite, but it suited the needs of the job, and for the sake of anonymity, he felt like it wouldn’t hurt for him to change things up for this one. If push came to shove and he had to shoot, it would likely be investigated far more thoroughly than a usual mark. 

“Can I add another to the pile?” Polly asked, somewhat sheepishly and held out her backpack. “I swiped it when you were out.”

“Wondered where that had gotten to,” Sebastian said, good-naturedly. He took the revolver, opened the chamber, and examined it curiously. “Two shots fired?”

“Yeah. Missed the first one,” she said, eyes down.

“Doesn’t matter. All you need is one.” he said, and then noticed the way her hands were shaking. “You...do know it’s okay to be freaked out by this, right?”

She shrugged, tried playing it off, but crumpled quickly. She scrubbed her face with her hands, then covered her eyes, turning away. “It wasn’t like before, with Griffiths,” she said, her voice hoarse. “It wasn’t...easy.”

“Let me make something one-hundred percent clear, sweetheart.” Seb stood to embrace her. “Under no circumstances would something like that have ever been easy.”

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**8.**

Jim smoothed out the map before them. “So we let _him_ pick the final showdown location--”

“Why would we do that?” Seb asked, critically. “This whole thing would be a lot more controlled if we had that location pinned down ahead of time.”

Jim made the sound of a gameshow buzzer. “Sorry, no. Sorry if it inconveniences you, but it’s more fun if he _feels_ like he’s in control. Because no matter what, he won’t be, thanks to our friend Polly over there.”

Polly, who’d been just hanging around the fringes of their conversation, came to attention. “Me? What did I do?”

Jim sauntered over, kissed her hand and then moved on. “Because the very first advice you ever gave me, right here on this couch, was to ‘up the stakes’ -- that anyone can survive the loss of their best friend, but they can’t survive the loss of _everyone_.” He circled back around to the map, and pointed at the different locations. “That’s why in addition to Seb being on Watson, we’ve employed two other snipers: Aleksei on Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street, and Remy on DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Those three people -- Watson, Hudson and Lestrade -- are all that stands between Sherlock and abject destruction. It’s sad, really,” Jim said, with a dramatic sigh. “They’re the only friends he has.”

Sebastian looked away then, because anyone observing him would’ve known exactly what he was thinking - that Holmes may have only had three friends, but Jim only had two, and they were both right here in this room. In a different world, Seb realized, Holmes and Jim might’ve been fast friends instead of enemies. 

“Have you gotten the phones yet?” Jim asked, holding out his palm expectantly.

“Yes,” Seb said, and sorted through a bag before placing one of four small burner phones into Jim’s waiting hand. “You will give the signal. Once Holmes is dead, send out the signal and we’ll all stand down. Money will be wired immediately to the snipers’ accounts.”  

“And if you don’t leave a message, what then?” Polly asked. “Does everyone die?”

“Either he dies, or they all die,” beamed Jim. “And either way, I’ll have the last word.” 

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**9.**

“How long has it been since you broke it off?”

At noon, Polly and Sally walked through the park, both wanting to get out from under NSY’s fluorescent lights and away from Sally’s ex, a sallow-faced, unhappily-married forensics officer who had a bad habit of lingering around Sally’s cube. Polly’s real intentions, of course, had been dictated to her by Jim -- to go down to the Yard and reinforce Sally’s bad feelings about Holmes one last time before the kidnapping -- but after everything that had gone down in the last 24 hours, when the conversation took off on a tangent about dysfunctional romantic entanglements, well, Polly couldn’t help but join in.

“A year, maybe more?” Sally said, and pointed at the bench across the way. “Oh, how about that one?”

“Looks good,” Polly said, and they sat, settling in with their sandwiches and bags of crisps. “Is he still with his wife?”

“You know, I’m not sure?” Sally said. “At this point, it doesn’t even matter. I work with him, it was a mistake, I’ve moved on. Eventually he will, too.”

Polly thought about Jim. “How do you even do that?”

“Move on?” Sally frowned. “Depends. Sometimes it’s something that happens slowly, over time. That’s not how it went down with Philip, though.”

“It was quick, then?” _Breaking it off with Jim would be quick, yeah, quick as getting my throat slit…_

“It was instant,” Sally recalled. “And all thanks to our mutual friend Sherlock Holmes.”

Polly lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes. He called us out at a crime scene, in front of God and everyone,” Sally grimaced. “It was humiliating...like being forced to look in a mirror. Made me realise how sordid and small the affair was, you know? I ended it that night.”

“I get that,” Polly said, and meant it. “I’m in the process of a kind of a breakup myself. Mine’s the quick kind, too. One minute I was so in, and the very next minute, I was completely out.”

Sally shook her head, sympathetically. “Oh, I’m sorry, Poll. What’d the bastard do?”

 _Find your brother. Kill him quickly. Fix your mistake._ “He...went too far.”

Alarmed, Sally reached out her hand. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I am, don’t worry,” Polly lied. “I promise.”

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**10.**

The late model BMW X5 pulled up to the kerb, and Eddie got out. “What do you think, Boss?”

“Perfect, Ed, This is perfect,” Sebastian ran his hand along the luxury SUV’s well-waxed bonnet. “Kills me not to use the Aston Martin, but it’s just too conspicuous. This will blend in beautifully. Where’d you get it?”

“What is it that the Americans say? It ‘fell off a truck’?” Eddie snarked, but Seb could tell he was pleased with himself. 

“Legal, though?” 

“Completely. New VIN number, insured, the works.” Eddie said, leaning in through the window to turn up the volume. “Plus, tinted windows in the back, as requested, AND it’s got a banging audio system.”

Sebastian laughed, and reached in to turn it back down. “Alright, that’s good, though maybe not that volume in this neighborhood.”

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**11.**

Polly sighed. “I’ve the worst taste in men.”

“No you don’t,” Sally said, shaking her head.

“Yes, I do!”

“You can’t have the _worst_ ,” Sally said, knowingly, “because I actually know the woman with the singular worst taste in men, in all of London, and you are not her.”

“Oh yeah?” Polly shot her a small smile. “Who is this poor girl and what can we do to help?”

“Her name’s Molly Hooper, and I swear to god,” Sally leaned in. “She spent years madly in love with Sherlock Holmes -- and god, why does everything always come back to him? Anyway, when she finally got it through her head that he just didn’t like her that way, she goes out and dates -- get this -- James Moriarty.”

Polly nearly choked on her sandwich. “The criminal?” 

“Yeah, that guy who broke into the Tower and all those other places?” Sally said, around a mouthful of crisps. “But this was before all that. It was a big thing, internally. He infiltrated the Met, pretended to be an IT guy, and that’s when they started dating. She didn’t find out who he really was until after she’d broken it off.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Tell me about it,” Sally said. “Then again, she’s a little off to begin with. You know, she works in the morgue--”

Polly froze, remembering Jim’s words on the patio. _“A city morgue examiner, actually, a few years back...”_

“-- total freak.” Sally continued. “I mean, she’d have to be, right? To date someone like Moriarty?”

Polly flushed, looked down, and busied herself with her sandwich. _She’d have to be._

“Anyway,” Sally said, not noticing Polly’s reaction, “The weirdest part is that now she and Sherlock are, like, super-close friends now, or summat? Probably doing creepy things together with corpses, I don’t want to even think about it.”

“But they’re not...together?”

“Can’t imagine they are. If you ask me, he and that Doctor friend of his are together _that_ way. There’s even a pool at work about it,” snorted Sally. “But Molly and Sherlock? They’re definitely close.”

 

 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**12.**

Eddie and Sebastian leaned back beside one another, against the boot. “Everything still on for tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “Had some hiccups along the way, but it looks like everything is lining up nicely.”

“I’m all set for the IOU,” Eddie said, bringing a cigarette packet up to his lips, pulling out a smoke with his teeth. Seb smiled to himself. He could imagine teenaged Eddie perfecting that move in the mirror, thinking it was cool. Seb snatched a cigarette for himself, and held out a lighter for them both. Eddie exhaled a long stream of smoke. “You guys all set on your end?”

“Polly’s getting antsy,” Sebastian said, honestly, “but I’ll be with her, so that part should go smoothly. It’s mostly Jim I’m worried about.”

“You’re always worried about him,” Eddie said, honestly. “What’s new about it this time?”

“He keeps adding unknown variables,” Seb said. “I mean, improvisation is okay, but not to this degree, and not at this late date.”

“He’s showing off.”

Sebastian nodded. “Fucking right, he’s showing off. I mean, par for the course with Jim, but this is something else. This whole thing has been a long time coming for him, and the target just brings out the worst in him.”

Eddie frowned, and took another drag. “Define ‘worst’.”

“I’ve already said too much,” Seb said, standing up.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Eddie shrugged, and clearly meant it. He’d been working for Seb long enough to know that sharing was something that could only ever go so far. “But whatever it is, I know you, and you’re worried, and that makes me worry about you, you arsehole.”

“I’ll be fine,” Seb said, feeling oddly touched by Eddie’s concern. “It’s him I’m worried about. All this talk about the unknown variables, and Jim’s the ultimate unknown variable.”

“Any chance of getting him to sit this one out?”

“Sit out of the biggest showdown of his life? Not a chance.”

Eddie frowned. “Could he wear a vest? Give him some kind of protection?”

“It ain’t that kind of party.” Seb said, crossing his arms. “Other than me, no one’s gonna have a gun at that location, least of all the target.”

“Can you arm _him_?”

“Give a lethal weapon to the ultimate unknown variable? No. Definitely not.” Sebastian said, emphatically. “Blighter may be a genius, but he’d probably blow his own head off by accident if I did..”

Eddie grinned. “Lucky to have you, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, I guess he is,” Seb grinned back. “But don’t you dare let him hear you say that.” 

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**13.**

_Molly Hooper._

She rolled the name around in her mind, and after she’d said goodbye to Sally, instead of going back to work, she found herself walking towards St. Barts, into the building and down the elevators, to the floor where the morgue was. 

Orderlies moved past her in the hall, pushing a gurney, in no particular hurry. Polly realized, grimly, this was the one place in a hospital where “hurry” wasn’t necessary. Double doors opened and they wheeled in the gurney. Through the small glass ovals in the double doors, Polly watched as a small woman sitting behind a table smiled, pointed to where she wanted them to park it, and accepted the paperwork they handed her. 

Through the glass windows, Polly could see the cherry pattern on her shirt, the peter pan collar, the dainty little flats she wore. Feminine. Delicate. Sweet, it seemed, in spite of (or maybe because of) her profession. Polly had expected Elvira, Mistress of the Dark and had somehow instead found Snow White. The Disney princess signed off on the orderlies’ chart and handed it back, saying something as she did that made both orderlies laugh. 

_Because of course Miss Molly Hooper was an absolute delight._

Polly took two steps backward, and then a few more, finding her way to the elevator before the orderlies left. Because with the way Polly felt right then, whatever the fuck it was she was feeling, it was probably best, for both their sakes, that she not see Molly alone.

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**14.**

Polly’s next Jim-dictated task was to return to work, to maintain her presence in the courts in advance of the kidnapping. She spent the rest of the afternoon at the jail, going through the motions, delivering food, escorting prisoners and ignoring the cesspool of conversations that men get into when they think women can’t hear them...

“What the fuck did you do to your hair, Wright?” mocked Jones, when she’d first walked in. “Dropped from an eight to a four overnight. Bad call, babe.”

_...and sometimes even when they can._

“Shut your trap, Jones, you’re a two yourself, at best,” cracked Viv. She jerked her head in Polly’s direction. “Want to come help me? I’ve got a load of archival cases to file. Could use an extra hand.”

“Sure,” Polly said, and followed Viv into the archives. It was quieter there, and she really did have an impressive stack of files to go through. “Thanks for the save back there.”

“No worries, love,” Viv said. “I need the help. Although work would be a lot easier if they all followed Griffiths to wherever the hell he fucked off to.”

“Still no leads?”

“Nah. His family’s been mum, so I’m guessing there was something to those gambling rumors,” she said, and handed Polly a stack of files. “How’s your brother?”

“Good,” Polly said. “Thank you, again, for the use of the flat.”

“Of course,” Viv said, with a reassuring smile. “Fumigation is nasty stuff. My Aunt Gloria swears it’s what caused her cancer. And I’m between tenants, so he can stay there as long as he needs to.”

“You’re the best, Viv.”

“This is what I’ve been telling you,” Viv cracked, opening a drawer.

 

 

 

**POLLY**

**15.**

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Jim pronounced as she walked through the door after work.

Polly’s mind immediately went to bad places. 

 _He’d found her out, he knew about Dennis, someone at the station had overheard her and Viv talking and ratted them out._  

“Oh yeah?” She asked, feigning enthusiasm, and dropped her bag and jacket on the couch, freeing her fists in case she needed to fight. “Who’s we?”

Jim walked over to her, grasping her wrist. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?” he said, with a wicked smile and led her into the media room.

Inside, two portable tables had been erected. Two young women, seemingly identical twins, bustled around one another, silently setting up stainless steel trays with a variety of instruments. _Am I to be tortured by a team of sister-assassins?_ Polly wondered. It wasn’t until then that she spotted the rather large travel-case of nail varnish on the coffee table.

“Ta-da!” Jim said, raising his hands with a flourish. “I thought we might indulge in a manicure. Tomorrow’s the big day, after all, and we want to look our best. The Hughes Sisters are the best aestheticians in all of London. They’re also part of one of the city’s largest crime families, so feel free to talk about anything around them. They know how to keep their mouths shut, don’t you ladies?”

The sisters smiled, but, staying on brand, didn’t say a word. Polly’s heart resumed beating. “That’s...great, Jim.”

“Have a seat,” he said, and numbly, she did as she was told. Jim sat at the other table, and both sisters sat before them, taking their hands gently and placing them into the bowls of water that sat at the center of each table. 

In spite of everything, Polly felt herself relax. Reflex, perhaps, or maybe just an aftermath of her short-lived adrenaline rush, but the water was warm, and the quiet of the sound-insulated room was soothing. For a brief moment, she was almost able to stop thinking about how the fuck she was going to save her brother. Almost, but not quite.  

“Seb not joining us?” she murmured. 

“He doesn’t like ‘the feeling of lotion on his hands’, the baby,” Jim teased. “Some people just don’t know what’s good for them.”

Polly murmured in agreement, but her mind, once again, began to itch. _‘Good for them’, was that code? Did Jim know something? Was this whole manicure thing a ploy to get her to spill?_

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked, leaning back into the chair and closing his eyes while his manicurist began scrubbing his nails with a soft brush. 

“I think so,” Polly said, as her manicurist did the same. “Nervous, but okay. Mostly worried about hiding for such a long time.”

“Sebastian has memorised the schematic, he knows all the hiding places,” Jim said, assuring her. “The only thing you have to worry about is keeping quiet.”

 _Was that a threat? A warning about more than just the kidnapping?_ Polly tried to keep a lid on her panic. “What happens if we’re found out?”

“You won’t be,” Jim said, confidently, “but even if you are, Sebastian will take care of it. Trained military sniper, darling, he can shoot his way out of anything.”

 _Meaning more children would die_ , and that was a new, horrible possibility Polly hadn’t considered before. She and Seb could kick off a school-wide massacre, _school kids in pajamas, bleeding out in dormitory hallways, and what the fuck was she doing?_

“Sorry, I’m suddenly feeling a little sick,” Polly said, pulling her hands away from the manicurist. “Can I...can we take a break for a moment?”

Jim looked over, concerned, and then stood, wiping his hands on a towel. “Let’s take a moment, ladies,” Jim said to the twins, and then shouted in the direction of the kitchen. “Cora -- some water, please!”

As the maid went to get the water, Jim took Polly over to the couch and sat her down. Cora entered with the requested water, and the manicurists followed her back into the kitchen, leaving Jim and Polly alone.

“Here, drink this,” Jim said, in a way that sounded almost like caring. 

She drained the glass and handed it back to him when she was done. Her mind was racing, her heart was pounding out of her chest, and all she could think was that _SOMEHOW, SOME WAY_ _HE KNOWS HE KNOWS HE KNOWS_ …

He placed the glass down on the table with a click, and for a moment, it was so quiet she could hear the air conditioning hum. Polly wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be speaking, or--

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I killed someone?” Jim asked, as if sharing an anecdote at a dinner party. “Funny if I haven’t, really, since it’s what this whole plan is all about. I was fourteen years old. Can you imagine killing someone at 14? I mean, I was always an advanced child, well ahead of my peers, but in something like this?” 

He shook his head, as if even he couldn’t believe it. Polly tried to imagine him at 14: _Smart? Certainly. Ignored? Maybe. Bullied? Only if they dared._  

“I was small, and he was big --  a secondary school’s swimming champion, so I knew I couldn’t fight him physically. Even if I had somehow managed to take him down, I wouldn’t have been able to hide the body, so I realized I’d have to do it some other way. I thought about killing him with a gun, or with a car, but I didn’t have either of those things,” he said, his voice sounding bitter, as if a gun or car were reasonable things that a 14-year-old boy to have access to. “Although honestly, I suppose I could have, if I’d really wanted to. I was a very resourceful kid.”

What happened next was confusing. Had it been shorter, Polly could have explained it away as some sort of extended dramatic pause, but it lasted for a full thirty seconds. To Polly, it seemed like Jim simply...slipped away, stopping mid-story to stare. 

“Jim?” Polly asked, tentatively, after the first few moments. She tried to catch his eyes, but despite how it looked, his focus seemed to actually be somewhere between she and him. The longer it went on, the more concerned she became, so finally she put her hand on his. “Jim? Are you okay?”

Then, just as quickly as he’d left, he was back, lucid, blinking, and acting as if no time had passed at all.

“Ultimately I settled on poison, ” he said, straightening his posture as he continued his story. “Poison! It sounded deliciously sophisticated. And after much thought, I chose a public place, a school swim meet, just so I could be present, and watch him die - an urge I’m sure you understand.”

 _Griffiths down, but not yet out, panting, bleeding, bargaining, begging, and the sudden overwhelming need to watch the light go out in his eyes._  

“So, I snuck into the locker room, my pulse going a mile a minute, literally half-hard with anticipation -- but at the same time, I was also terrified, panicking because someone could’ve walked in at any moment. I could’ve been caught red-handed, but miraculously, I wasn’t. I got the bottle open and mixed it into his medicine and somehow, no one came in, no one at all. And then I left, just like that. Slipped in with the crowd and no one was the wiser. It was genius,” he said, looking over at her triumphantly. “I was a genuine homicidal prodigy.”

Jim placed his hand on her leg, then, and left it there, as his voice began to rise in pitch and volume. “But then, you see, that’s when I started to worry. Worry I’d left behind fingerprints, or that someone had somehow traced my movements. Maybe a camera had caught me breaking into the neurologist’s office, or maybe my victim had a diary full of statements that would lead them directly to my door. Maybe, maybe, maybe…” 

 _Sing-song words, His accent all over the place. This was not normal._ Polly shifted out from under his hand. “So what happened?”

“It wasn’t my fault, it was biology, which I had no control over, did I?” He stood, began to pace, gesturing wildly. “That was Siobhan’s fault, that bitch of a parasite, she was responsible for what happened after. She made me this way.”

 _Who the hell was Siobhan?_ Polly raised her hands, attempting to calm him. “Jim, what happened?”

“I threw up, right there in the pool bleachers,” he said, matter-of-factly, no shame or embarrassment. “And then again in the stairwell on the way to the loo, and then finally, a third time, in the loo itself. I made myself sick with worry, so sick that I very nearly missed my moment. And that would’ve been a crime, because when it happened, it was oh, so glorious. The thrashing of his muscles, and then all at once, the sudden, slack sinking into the water," he said, seeming to enjoy the sibilance of his words. Jim moved back to the couch and locked eyes with her. “I don’t want you to miss your moment, Poll. This kidnapping is your moment. And I assure you, everything will go according to plan tomorrow night, and then the following day, everything will go according to plan with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” Polly asked, at long last and finally.

“I don’t hate him. I don’t hate anyone. I actually can’t hate, check my file,” he said, off-hand, as if his history were a matter of public knowledge. “But he has to die, Polly. He has to die because he figured it out. You understand that, don’t you? He was 16 years old and he figured it out, just from reading the newspapers. Who does that? Not that anyone believed him, not back then, not when he was just a boy, but that doesn’t even matter. He still has to die. And when he does, this boy,” he said, pointing at himself, “will finally be free. Don’t you see?”

As he spoke, Polly came to a slow and steady understanding. It was one thing to dismiss someone as “mad” - everyone’s a little mad, after all -- but it was another thing to see the symptoms manifesting themselves right in front of you. The moment Jim started going off track, Polly’s police training had kicked in, and she’d automatically begun building a Vulnerability Assessment. She noted his wide eyes, witnessed the rocking of his body and observed the continuous flex and release of his fingers. The rhythm of his voice shifted, going melodic, going hypnotic, and as he continued telling his story, the speed of his speech increased, as did its volume and emphasis. Even as she clinically marked these behavioural shifts, inside Polly continued to panic. _Was this some kind of ploy? Some attempt at sympathy?_ _Or had she simply not understood the depth of what Sebastian had been dealing with, up until now?_   

It didn’t take long for Polly to realise that all attempts at assessment were, ultimately, pointless. When it came to James Moriarity, it wasn’t like any further assessment was needed. 

His madness was a given. And she’d voluntarily moved into the mad house.  

Polly nodded, slowly, and reached out her hand to his. “You’re right, Jim. I do see. And I’m being silly. Everything will be fine. I’m fine. Let’s...go finish our manicures.”

“Of course,” he said, flashing her a broad smile. “Mustn’t keep the lovely sisters waiting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- Why do I always end up fixating on characters' beauty products? Of course [Jim's shampoo](https://www.philipb.com/product_info.php?products_id=30) comes in a jar and is named after royalty, because that's not extra at all!
> 
> \- The Hubs (with an assist from www.imfbd.com) helped me out once again with firearm identification! The stairway sniper in TRF (who fandom has pretty much considered to be Sebastian, even if he goes unidentified as such) is actually carrying an [Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Covert rifle](http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Talk:Accuracy_International_Arctic_Warfare_series), which actually does have a folding stock and it's very own carrying case.
> 
> \- The [2010 BMW X5](https://www.motortrend.com/cars/bmw/x5/2010/) is a much better option for blending in with the upper class parents at St. Aldate's. Good call, Seb & Eddie!
> 
> \- This is a head canon that you'll have to pry from my cold dead hands: Jim gets [manicures](https://www.wikihow.com/Perform-a-Male-Manicure) on the regular, and enjoys the experience thoroughly.
> 
> \- I had to do a fair amount of research to even begin attempting to get into Jim's mind. In this chapter, we witness him dissociating, and while that is not a symptom of psychosis, per se, it is a common symptom of those who have experienced trauma in their youth. Learn more about dissociation [here](https://depts.washington.edu/hcsats/PDF/TF-%20CBT/pages/7%20Trauma%20Focused%20CBT/Dissociation-Information.pdf), [here](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/16737393) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMzN6Cxnxlg).
> 
> \- The [Vulnerability Assessment](https://www.app.college.police.uk/app-content/mental-health/mental-vulnerability-and-illness/#de-escalation) is a real thing taught at the College of Policing!
> 
>  
> 
> Never has a manicure been so intense! 
> 
> Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter to you -- I knew as we got closer to the end that plotting would mean longer chapters, but not as long as what I ended up with. What I initially wrote for Chapter 13 was twice as long as the chapter you just read, so I split it in two, and that second half is now Chapter 14. Realizing this would likely happen for the two chapters that remained as well, I've now upped the chapter count to 18. 
> 
> As we approach the rooftop meeting, things will get increasingly more intense from here on out, so be warned! 
> 
> The next chapter will post in two weeks, on **Sunday, October 27th**! 
> 
> See you then, and thanks so much for reading, y'all!  
> <3  
> vex.


	14. Jim/Sebastian/Polly/Dennis

**JIM**

**1.**

“You’re perfect.” It was the day of the kidnapping, and Jim watched as Sebastian got dressed in full stinking-rich toff mode. Every article of his clothing was impeccably made, reeking of wealth and material indulgence, and just the very look of him took Jim’s breath away. It wasn’t the first time he’d been reminded of the life that Sebastian had given up, choosing Jim over his own family, and he doubted it would be the last. Jim stood up, reaching up to fuss with Seb’s tie. “You’re going to be brilliant, you know. Wish I could watch.”

“Now who’s the voyeur?” Seb said, with a wicked smile.

“Always and forever, darling,” Jim said, tucking the tail of Seb’s tie neatly into the loop. “You’ll be careful?”

“Can’t promise that,” Seb said. “But I’ll be back in time for tea.”

Jim’s heart ached -- or as much as his psychopathic heart  _ could _ ache, anyway. That phrase - “I’ll be back in time for tea” - was what Sebastian had told him the first time he’d gone out on a truly dangerous mission for Jim, and it had become a kind of a code between them, meant to reassure the other of their safety, even when no such reassurance could legitimately be given. 

“You’d better,” Jim said, smoothing down Sebastian’s lapel. He reached his hand up to Seb’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss that meant more than simple desire. When he finally pulled away, Jim gave him a few reassuring pats on the side of his cheek. “And hey -- keep Polly in line.”

“Will do, Boss,” Seb said, fondly. “Whatever you say.”

  
  
  


**JIM**

**2.**

In the lift, Jim handed Polly an envelope. “Photo of Sherlock, IDs, end-of-term documents, in case anyone asks for them.” He turned to Sebastian. “Remember: child pickup ends at four, lights out is at nine. Snatch ‘em at eleven, drop them in Addlestone and you’ll both be home and in bed by half-past twelve. Any questions?”

“Not a single one, Boss,” said Sebastian. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m not worrying, I’m excited,” Jim said, as the lift doors opened, and he punctuated his thoughts by slapping the both of them on the arse as they exited. 

“So don’t fuck this up,” he warned, in sing-song, just as the lift doors closed.

  
  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**3.**

“So are you more of a ‘Albert’, or a ‘Rupert’?” 

A brightly colored banner proudly announced the end-of-term, draped beside a discreet table bearing pre-printed name tags. Dozens of children, parents, and administrators moved in and out of the school entrance, some bearing trunks and suitcases, others simply loitering until they were picked up or it was time to leave. 

Polly held up two tags, teasingly. 

“We’re not here for the party, Poll,” Sebastian hissed.

“I’m just saying, all the parents have them,” Polly said, shooting glances at the parents passing them.

Seb followed her glances, and irritated, grabbed one of the tags in her hand at random, stuck it on his chest and then grabbed another one from the desk and handed it to her. “Put this on, then, and come with me. Time to hide.”

“Fine, ‘Rupert’, but I’m hardly a ‘Henrietta’!” she said, eyes rolling, as they moved through the crowd toward the main stairwell. 

 

**SEBASTIAN**

**4.**

It wasn’t much of a surprise that Sebastian, the sniper, chose the highest point in the school - the attic - to set up camp. 

“Best viewpoint of the car park, so we can see when the kids and parents finally leave,” he said, unpacking his gear. “Plus, the kids’ rooms are closer to the attic, so we won’t have to backtrack on the way out.”

“And here I thought you just liked being on top,” Polly laughed.

“Smart arse,” Sebastian said, with a smile, and ejected the gun’s magazine, reflexively pulling back the rack to prove the chamber was empty. “You’re not wrong, though. Just not why you think. Come here -- I’ll show you.” He stood, and gestured to her, moving closer to the window. Polly joined him. 

“Not too close,” he warned, his fingers pulling lightly on her elbow, pulling her closer to him, and keeping them both far enough away from the window not to be seen. “It’s all about angles,” he said, and lifted the pistol so she could see through the sight. “From above, until you get to a certain angle, everything below is a target.” 

“Well, sure,” Polly said, and then all at once, she grabbed the gun from him, turning the barrel on him. “But they’re targets from the ground, too.”

“True,” Sebastian said, raising his hands in surrender, amused by her unexpected move, and suddenly, the lesson had become a game. “But it’s harder to be accurate from the ground,” he explained, crossed the attic, moving towards a large heating duct that ran vertically through the space. She tracked him with the gun, keeping him in her line of sight. Seb continued. “Because on the ground, non-targets, things like cars, trees and bystanders,” he said, knocking on the duct before moving behind it, “can get between you and your target.”

When he didn’t emerge from behind the duct, Polly carefully stepped closer, getting close enough to peer around it, holding the gun before her. That’s when Sebastian, crouching low behind the duct, swiftly snatched the gun back. “Shooting from below is much like high angle shooting,” he said, nimbly moving to the ground and leaning backward, to effect the angle, gun pointing upwards. ”No problem at this distance and angle,” he said, “But if the target were to get much higher than me,” he scanned the room, and then nodded towards a short stack of trunks at the other side of the attic. 

Polly took her cue, and moved beside it. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. 

“These are four inch heels!”

“You scared?”

“Christ,” Polly said, rolling her eyes. She kicked off her shoes and quickly climbed on top of the trunks.

“Perfect, see,” Sebastian said, moving closer to her, and dropping to the floor, on his back, holding the gun out at her with both hands, to effect the lowest possible demonstrable angle. “ The whole shooting process is a triangle. With a low-angle shot, the sniper is on the bottom. The line of sight to the target at the other end is greater than the distance the bullet travels in a flat line,” he said, pointing the gun at her with one hand and demonstrating the line of sight between them with his other. “The greater the angle, the more the deviation between the line of sight and the distance that gravity has to affect the bullet." Sebastian was speaking fast, now, gesturing wildly, and was wildly aware that he was perhaps approaching maximum sniper geekery for Polly. “It’s...you know, a lot of nerdy stuff, and involves way too much math. But high or low angles, it doesn’t matter, really, unless you’re in a city. Low angle shooting in a city is problematic because buildings are tall and project 90 degrees from the ground.  Even if it were just a floor or two higher than me, buildings can get in the way, and my angles get fucked. Get high enough and I can’t get my shot. I lose complete sight of the target the higher you get.” 

Polly nodded, a half-smile on her face as she slowly stepped down off the trunks. “And the lower I get?” She asked, moving back into his sights. 

Sebastian smirked and sat up slowly, his gun still extended. “The lower you get, sweetheart, the better the shot.” 

“Well then,” Polly said, now standing over him and looking down. “How about you prove it?”

Sebastian put down the gun.

 

**JIM**

**5.**

Jim felt at loose ends. 

At long last, the plan was underway, but it wasn’t time for him to play his part, and it wouldn’t be for hours and hours. This was an oversight on his part. He should have planned a diversion.

Pity that Not-Sherlock was dead. 

Hell, at this point, even Dennis would’ve been a welcome distraction.

The notches on Jim’s bedpost had long-boasted a body count, but there had never been so many in such a short amount of time. And now both Sebastian and Polly were potentially in the line of fire. 

“The bodies are piling up!” Jim announced, loudly and suddenly, to no one at all. 

  
  


**SEBASTIAN**

**6.**

Seb checked his watch: it was quarter-to-five. 

“Why  _ aren’t _ Max and Claudette being picked up now?” Polly asked, staring out the window at the cars below.

“Because they aren’t a priority,” Sebastian said, reflexively, loading and re-loading a clip, a dexterity exercise. “Dad’s an ambassador, Mum’s a socialite. Neither of them are probably even in the country right now, and neither could be bothered to send a chauffeur.”

Polly turned to him. “Sounds like the voice of experience.”

“Others had it worse.” Seb said. “Being a mopey rich kid doesn’t mean shite when other kids are going without food, you know?”

“You talking about Jim, now?”

“I’m not talking about anyone.” Sebastian stowed the spare ammo in his pack, and stretched out on the floor. “But if I were, I’d tell you to mind your own business.”

“I was,” Polly said, sitting down on the floor beside him. “And then yesterday, out of the blue, he tells me this story from when he was fourteen--”

“--he told you about the pool?” Interrupted Seb, frowning.

“About poisoning some kid? Yeah.” Polly nodded. “But the story wasn’t the most upsetting part. It was the way he told it,” she said, carefully. “He...didn’t seem in control.” 

Sebastian sighed, sat up and scooted backward until his back was against the wall. “He’s not in a good place.”

“You’ve said that before. But you said he was better.”

“And then he gets worse, and then he gets better again. And on and on and on.” Seb said, keeping his voice low, but still expressing the frustration. “We’re in a particularly low place right now. Not the absolute lowest I’ve ever seen him, but still...notable. I didn’t want to upset you, but he killed more people than you did yesterday.”

“Jesus,” Polly said, and looked surprised. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You don’t want to know. I don’t want to know, but I do, and I’m not authorized to discuss it.” Sebastian admitted. “I do think, however, that this particular low point was brought on by this plan.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Are you serious?”

“I meant to himself,” Polly said, imagining how her whole situation could be resolved if they just arrived home after the kidnapping to find Jim dead. “I mean, should he even be alone right now?”

“He’s not alone. The house staff is there, and they know to call me if things get stranger than usual,” Seb explained. “Personally, I think he’s far too self-centered to do anything dangerous to himself. And he only person who could’ve bullied him into hurting himself is long gone, thank god.”

“An ex?”

“No, his mum.”

“Is that ‘Siobhan’?”

Sebastian cocked his head. “How do you know Siobhan?”

“I don’t,” Polly said,  “He just mentioned the name yesterday.”

“That woman was a plague on everything she touched, and that’s putting it mildly,” Sebastian said, sharply. “Kind of wish she was alive, just so I could kill her myself.”

“What did she do?”

“Things a parent never should,” Seb said, reaching into his coat pocket for his half-empty Rothman’s pack. “She’d abandon him for weeks, then show up all smiles with lottery tickets and Lorry Stop toys. Endless stream of questionable boyfriends, endless stream of drugs, gambling, petty thefts. She was manipulative, suicidal, and on more than one occasion, she dared him to kill them both. First time was when he was seven.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“She said if he really loved her, he’d do it, and handed him a knife. Kid never had a fucking chance.” He plucked a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “But he’s not a kid anymore, and he’s got me and you, and this massive network that he built from nothing. He’ll be fine, eventually. Once Holmes is gone, things will get back to normal, and so will he. And we’ll be back to business as usual.”

“I’d like to see that. I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Seb said, and nodded confidently. “All we have to do is get through the next 24 hours.”

 

**JIM**

**7.**

Jim wandered around the penthouse.

He disinterestedly shuffled papers on his desk. 

He idly attempted to break into Sebastian’s arsenal for the 300th time (no luck), and then spent an hour researching how to pick the sniper’s latest “unpickable” lock purchase. 

At long last, he ended up in the living room, amusing himself for a few minutes by initiating a series of massive cyberattacks against Facebook, Google, Twitter, and YouTube, with just a few clicks of his mobile.

This last effort kept him so amused, in fact, that he didn’t even notice Cora enter to tidy up the room.

 

**POLLY**

**8.**

At eleven on the dot, Seb and Polly split up to grab the kids -- he to him, she to her -- and met up again in the landing between floors. Sebastian would later tell her that the boy fought tooth and nail, kicking and punching him before the ether took full effect. Polly’s experience with the girl, on the other hand, was disturbing in how civil it was. The fact that Claudette didn’t even begin to resist until the handkerchief came down over her face spoke volumes about what was wrong with the world.  

_ Or maybe that was just the monster in her talking… _

Outside, the air was cold, the moon was bright and the campus was calm. No alarms sounded, no lights flashed, and no guards scurried across the car park. Sebastian carried Max under his arm and deposited him in the backseat. Polly led a semi-conscious Claudette to the car, and seated herself between them, with Max on her left and Claudette on her right. Sebastian swung into the driver’s seat, and pulled out of the school grounds. It was that simple.

**POLLY**

**9.**

“Who are you? Where are you taking us?”

Ten minutes outside the candy factory, the effects of the ether began to wear off. Max came to first, still angry and ready to fight. 

“Shut it,” Sebastian shouted back from the driver’s seat

“My father--”

“--isn’t here.” Seb said, finishing his sentence. “So I suggest you shut up and be a good boy and you might just survive to see the morning.”

At that, little Claudette, now awake as well, immediately burst into tears.

“It’s alright,” Polly said, awkwardly, patting the child on her shoulder. “Don’t - don’t cry.”

Claudette looked up at her then, her small voice groggy, her face tear-stained in the moonlight. “Are we going to die?”

That was the moment that Polly fully understood she was truly a horrible human -- putting two children through what would likely be the worst trauma of their entire lives, at the instigation of another horrible human, to settle a feud started by two other children, twenty years ago. Literal madness, but madness she had no choice but to follow through on, at least to some degree, to save Denny. 

She swallowed hard and reached for the photograph of Holmes that Sebastian has stashed behind the driver’s seat. “Come closer, you two,” she said, and turned on the overhead light. “Memorise this man’s face. He’s the bad guy. This is the man who wants you dead.” Polly said, her voice cracking. “But this is important:  _ no one has to die _ , do you understand? So long as you stay away from this man, no one dies.”

 

**JIM**

**10.**

 

“Will this disturb you, Sir?” 

“What?” Jim looked up, amused by the happenings on his phone, to find Cora standing before him, with the vacuum hose in her hand. 

“Oh, no, fine, do as you wish,” he said, waving her off. The panic online at not being able to access Facebook was hitting a peak pitch, and the response was purely delicious.

Cora plugged into the penthouse’s central vac system and went around the room, hoovering the area rugs and the furniture with quick, efficient swipes. 

By the time she’d finished, Jim had entirely lost interest in her. He’d even lost interest in the cyberattacks taking place on his phone, because something altogether more curious had just happened. 

When Cora had tidied the couch, she’d shaken out Polly’s hoodie, and two familiar-looking pieces of paper had fluttered out of it. They’d fallen to the floor, just out of sight beneath the couch. 

Jim stood up, wandered over to the couch and picked them up.

  
  
  
  


**POLLY**

**11.**

In Addlestone, they no longer had to worry about appearances. With no one around for miles, ether was no longer necessary. Sebastian with a big gun was enough to motivate the children out of the car and into the disused factory. Once inside, Max took the lead, with Sebastian behind him, barking directions to the boy as he held a gun to his back. Polly and Claudette followed at a slight distance, the little girl’s stride shorter than the others. 

She held onto Polly’s hand tightly.

“What’s happening?” she whispered. The tears has finally stopped flowing, but her voice was cowed. The factory at night was unsettling, the machines casting creepy shadows on the wall. 

Polly squeezed her hand reassuringly. “We’re going to a warm nest that my friend’s gonna build for you. And there you’ll sit, safe as kittens, until the police find you. And they  _ will _ find you, I promise you. The police will be on the case, and they’ll find you, quick as a wink.” 

Ahead, the boys had reached the spot, and Sebastian threw the bedding at Max, ordering him to spread out the blanket. Polly knew that now was her moment, that Sebastian would be so distracted by setting up camp that he’d never even notice that the girls had lagged behind. 

She grabbed the girl by her arm, and knelt down. “Claudette, this is very important. I need you to listen to me.”

“Yes?” The girl said, alarmed by Polly’s sudden movements and the tone of her voice. 

“I need to tell you something, but it’s very important that you NOT talk about it and don’t tell Max about it until my friend and I are gone, you understand?”

“Like a secret?”

“Yes, it’s a secret, that’s it,” Polly said, “But it’s one you must tell Max AFTER we’ve left, got it?”

“Got it,” the girl nodded, finally showing some moxie.

“Alright,” Polly said, looking ahead, making sure Sebastian was still occupied. “There will be a basket of chocolates left with you. Whatever you do, Claudette, you must NOT eat the chocolates. They’re poison, and while they won’t kill you, as best I can tell, they will make you very, very sick, and the more you eat, the sicker you’ll get.” 

“Like the apple in Snow White?” the girl asked. 

“Exactly like the apple in Snow White,” Polly said, grateful she was getting through. “And just like the apple, it will be very tempting to eat the poison chocolates, because they will look lovely and because you and Max will both get very hungry while you wait for the police, but you MUST NOT EAT THEM.”

Claudette held up her little finger, and crooked it. “I won’t eat any,” she whispered, solemnly. “Pinky-promise.”

Relieved, Polly hooked her own finger in the girl’s, echoing her words. “Pinky-promise. Good job. Now let’s catch up with the boys.”

 

**POLLY**

**12.**

“What took you so long with the girl?”

The drive back to London took a little over an hour, but Sebastian didn’t waste any time interrogating her about the time it took to get Claudette to the nest. 

Polly shrugged it off. “She’s a kid, she got scared. I had to calm her down.”

“She should be scared, she was in the middle of being kidnapped.”

“So we can’t show some common decency to a child?” Polly snapped. “And here I thought I was the monster.”

Seb cut his eyes away from the road. “Look, Poll, if you’re having an issue with they way I handle my business--”

“--your business?” Interrupted Polly, “This is  _ Jim’s  _ business, and you know it. You don’t care about Holmes.”

“One of these days I’ll tell you about my plans for the  _ other _ Holmes brother,” Sebastian said,  irritated. “The Holmes Brothers happen to be our mutual concern - Jim’s and mine. You’re the one who’s just along for the ride.” 

She and Sebastian didn’t talk the rest of the way home.

 

**POLLY**

**13.**

“What’s with the sad faces?” Jim said, with a frown himself. “You just pulled off a textbook kidnapping. From what I can tell, it went off without a hitch, and the kids are safely locked away at the drop point with the chocolates.” Jim said, moving around to the front of his desk. “So job well done! Be happy!”

“We are, Boss,” Sebastian said, with a sigh. “Been a long day, is all.” 

Polly sat perched on the arm of a chair, scratching her head. She’d taken the wig off in the car on the way home, but her scalp still itched. “I think we’re both in need of a kip.”

“Well, you can sleep if you want,” Jim pointed at Seb, and then turned his attention to Polly. “But as for you, your day isn’t over yet. Go to work, let me know the moment the kidnapping is discovered.”

“Are you serious?” Polly asked, incredulous. “We’ve been at this since ten AM. It’s nearly two in the morning.”

“Polly dearest,” he said, cocking his head, and smoothing a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I mean this in the kindest way possible, but sleep when you’re dead.” He opened the office door. “Until then, get to work. GO!” he barked, and she let herself out.

  
  


**POLLY**

**14.**

“I did it, Den,” she said, on the phone, on the way to work. “I mean, I did what I could. Warned the girl about the chocolates. And then Seb got suspicious.”

“About me?”

She turned the corner and shook her head. “No, about the girl. And then we had a fight.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t want to hear about this.”

“Poll, I’ve been stuck alone in a two-bedroom apartment with no television and nothing but books about gardening,” Dennis whinged. “I’m starved for entertainment. Humor me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Jesus, it’s not a particularly juicy story. I just...challenged his role in the plan. Said it was all about Jim, when apparently Jim’s not the only one with a vendetta against a Holmes brother.”

“ _ That’s  _ interesting,” Dennis said, pointedly.

“Isn’t it? Thought we might be able to work that somehow, but I need more information.” Polly said, pulling into the car park. “But I just got to work. You doing okay?”

“Going slowly out of my mind, but yeah, I’m okay. Keep me posted?”

“Of course,” Polly said. “I’ll swing by on the way home, bring you some breakfast.”

“Sounds perfect,” Dennis said. His voice dropped then, his tone going suddenly serious. “Listen, Poll, can you please be careful? I’ve been thinking, now that the kidnapping’s done, your role in the plan is done.”

“And so I’m suddenly disposable? Yeah, crossed my mind, too.  But I’m still his pet monster, Den,” she said, reassuringly. “He believes our story. He believes I made the ultimate sacrifice for him. I’m safe, for now. And right now, it’s all about Holmes, anyway. Which gives us time to plan a more permanent route out of this mess.”

“I’ve got a few ideas.”

“Yeah, me too,” Polly said. “Talk more later? In person?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here.” 

“You better.”

 

**JIM**

**15.**

Half past three in the morning and the penthouse was quiet, but for Seb’s snores faintly filtering into the living room from upstairs. There was a rhythm to the noise, a beat, and as Jim got ready to leave, he hummed along, his brain immediately finding a “song” of sorts that matched the rhythm and (of course) it was a nursery rhyme. 

_ Half a pound of tuppenny rice... _

He sang the words under his breath as he slipped on his shoes...

_ Half a pound of treacle...  _

...as he pocketed his phone, his stiletto, and some cash...

_ That’s the way the money goes... _

...and finally, at the door, as a last-minute impulse told him to put on Polly’s hoodie before leaving the penthouse.

“...Pop! goes the weasel,” he said, coldly, to his reflection in the hall mirror, and walked out the door.

  
  
  


**DENNIS**

**16.**

Quarter past four, Dennis’ phone chimed. He woke, and squinted at the text screen, bright in the darkness of the room. 

**MEET ME AT THE SHOP. URGENT.**

He sat up, and reached for his glasses. Polly’s number. He texted back. 

**I’m allowed out? DW**

No response. 

_ Shit. _

He texted again.

**Poll- is everything okay? DW**

Three gray dots, and then relief. 

**YES. I’LL EXPLAIN AT THE SHOP. MEET ME NOW, DEN.**

**DENNIS**

**17.**

When Dennis arrived at the coffee shop, newspaper bundles littered the doorway, just like they always did. 

When he opened the door, the entry bells jingled, just like they always did. 

When he tried to remove his key, it jammed for a moment, just like it always did.

In other words, on this morning, everything at the coffeeshop was familiar -- routine, even. Just like it always was.

Until he turned on the lights.

  
  


**JIM**

**18.**

“Don’t try to run,” Jim warned. He sat on the couch, wearing Dennis’s sister’s hoodie, sipping a coffee. “I made some coffee. Just plain brewed. I couldn’t sort out the machine.”

“Where’s Polly?” Dennis asked, quickly moving towards the table. 

“I must say, you look fantastic for a dead man,” Jim snarked, still humming that song from the penthouse.  _ “Up and down the city road…”  _ he sang, before taking out his stiletto and stabbing it into the table in front of him.  _ “In and out The Eagle…”  _

The sight of the knife, paired with the sing-song nursery rhyme, stopped Dennis short, but he carried on. “I mean it. If you’ve hurt a single hair on Polly’s head--”

“Oh, I may be guilty of a lot of things, Dennis, but I will NOT take the blame for that haircut.” Jim mugged comically, before standing and resuming his song. “ _ That’s the way the money goes... _ ”

“Where is my sister?”

“Not here.”

“She texted me.”

“ _ I  _ texted you,” he said, and watched Dennis’ face process that information. “It was a trick, dummy. Handy little app. I could send you a text from the Queen if I wanted.  _ Pop! goes the weasel! _ ”

In that instant, Dennis grabbed the coffeepot from the burner, and moved to smash it into the side of Jim’s face. Jim, ducked and the coffee pot fell to the ground, covering the floor with glass shards and hot coffee. Jim reached for his stiletto, but he’d jammed it too deep into the wood, leaving him no time to pry it loose before Dennis came at him again, this time brandishing a small table. Jim scrambled backwards, upending a display bin of packaged coffee beans and a shelf of travel mugs. Dennis launched the table at him, and Jim dodged it, barely. 

“Did you actually think I wouldn’t find out? Did she?” Jim spat, as his hands scrabbled along the cheap plaster behind him until they finally lit upon a wall-mounted fire extinguisher. “You may still be breathing, Dennis Wright, but you are a dead man.”  Jim snarled, ripping the extinguisher out of the wall. He held it like a cricket bat and lunged forward, slamming the extinguisher into Dennis’ ribs, loudly singing: 

“ _ Every night when I go out…” _

The pained look on Dennis’ face was exquisite, so Jim lunged again, slamming it this time into Dennis’ gut--

_ “...the monkey’s on the table…” _

\--until Dennis fell, and tried to edge backwards on the ground, through the glass--

_ “...take a stick…” _

Jim landed on top of him. He reached over, pried the stlletto free-- 

_ “...and knock him off..” _

and with a grunt, plunged it into Dennis’ chest.

_ “...Pop! goes the weasel!” _

Blood ran, and the light went out of Dennis’ eyes. Jim was sweating, breathing hard. Dennis had given him much more of a fight than he’d expected. He huffed out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair before standing up and straightening his clothes, glass crunching under his feet.  _ Much more of a fight. _ Must be something about siblings, he thought, The Holmeses, and now the Wrights. 

Jim went outside, grabbed a broken brick from the alley next door and threw it through the coffeeshop’s plate glass window. There was no more direct way to alert the police (and one policewoman, in particular) than via the coffee shop’s own security system.

As the alarm began to sound, Jim smiled, and casually walked to the nearest tube stop, whistling  _ Pop! Goes the Weasel  _ as he disappeared underground. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
>  
> 
> \- I know NOTHING about boarding school schedules, so I looked for some advice online, and [found it here](http://www.qms.bc.ca/programs/boarding-life/boarding-life-schedules/).
> 
> \- [And another new gun for Sebastian](https://www.thetruthaboutguns.com/new-from-gemtech-aurora-super-short-9mm-silencer/) \- I swear, this fic is turning into a gun kink project (such is the inherent problem in writing for a canon sniper)! 
> 
> \- Seb gets geeky about high-angle and low-angle shooting [and suddenly I find myself in a world of geometry calculations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTSBcNgGMNo). Luckily, [this article](https://www.businessinsider.com/stunning-images-show-nato-snipers-high-angle-shooting-in-austrian-alps-2018-10) about high-angle shooting in the Alps saved me!
> 
> \- Once again, [this article](https://www.healthyplace.com/personality-disorders/psychopath/psychopathy-definition-symptoms-signs-and-causes) helped keep me true re: Jim's diagnosis. 
> 
> \- Jim's DOS attack [was based on one that took place in 2016](https://www.businessinsider.com/amazon-spotify-twitter-github-and-etsy-down-in-apparent-dns-attack-2016-10) (I just changed the targets). 
> 
> \- Does ether really work the way it does in the movies (and the way I've depicted it here)? [Read to find out!](https://www.quora.com/Was-putting-an-ether-rag-on-someone-s-mouth-ever-really-practical-to-knock-them-out-like-in-the-movies-From-what-I-know-even-pure-ether-has-slow-effects-at-the-onset-and-makes-a-person-feel-inebriated-rather-than)
> 
> \- As, it seems, with all traditional nursery rhymes, ["Pop! Goes The Weasel" is theorized to be about something not-so-nice](https://io9.gizmodo.com/the-morbid-messages-hidden-in-beloved-nursery-rhymes-1601813657). (Hint: It has nothing to do with killing an associate's brother. Nothing at all, Jim.)
> 
>  
> 
> With the kidnapping committed, we are now just about 24 hours away from the rooftop scene in TRF. How will Dennis' murder affect Polly, Sebastian, Jim, and the outcome of the Holmes Plan? Stay tuned!
> 
> Thanks for the kind words and reads for the last chapter -- the next chapter may be a bit delayed for writer fussiness! Subscribe to be sure you catch it when it posts!
> 
> Thanks again,  
> <3  
> vex.

**Author's Note:**

> **END NOTES**
> 
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> 
> Welcome to the new fic!  
> This one's for a select audience, I know, but it's been burrowing in my brain for a long time and it must get OUT! 
> 
> For those who'd like to relive the scene that inspired this fic, [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUDoInEYlc8) and go to 1:57. 
> 
> Most of this WIP is already written, and a new chapter will be posted every two weeks! Much love and appreciation for Mel, in advance, for once again agreeing to Beta my work. 
> 
> Thanks for tuning in!  
> <3  
> vex.


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